


Doing The Wrong Thing

by TheGreatSnapescape



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mentor Severus Snape, Misuse of Sectumsempra, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Sectumsempra, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Harry Potter, Self-Harming Severus Snape, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-09-06 06:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16827340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatSnapescape/pseuds/TheGreatSnapescape
Summary: “I didn’t know what else to do, okay? I was just so… frustrated. And it helps. It makes me feel better.” Harry crossed his arms defensively and looked away, glaring into the flames. “You wouldn’t understand,” he added under his breath.“Oh, indeed?” Severus raised an eyebrow. Every instinct screamed at him not to say the next words, but he couldn’t deny himself the satisfaction of proving the brat wrong. “Actually, I would.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multichapter fic with a complex plot. I warn now that my schedule and health do not allow me to devote every waking moment to writing, so chapter updates will not follow a strict and regular schedule, but I aim to update roughly every 2 weeks or so. I have several chapters' worth written already, plus a detailed outline of the entire plot, so do not be concerned that I should write myself into a box and abandon this fic. 
> 
> I have seen many self-harming!Harry mentor!Snape fics, and I've even seen a few self-harming!Snape fics around, but my take on those tropes is, hopefully, a unique one that you, the reader, have not yet encountered. Harry and Snape are both such disaster humans that I find it very easy to imagine either one of them turning to unhealthy methods such as this to cope with their dumpster fire lives. I aim for more realism in my portrayal than I find in most fics that deal with themes of self harm and suicide. While it can be an interesting and dramatic topic to explore, fanfiction tends to either over-exaggerate the severity (I'm talkin' those fics where they're at it all day every day) or resolve it entirely in one heartfelt conversation. I know from personal experience that 'recovery' is not linear in practice; it is slow and frustrating, moreso if you're dealing with stubborn characters like these two; thus, the pacing and characterization I hope will be much more realistic and, in the end, satisfying.
> 
> CW for this chapter: graphic depictions of self harm.

_In the dead of night, while the students and staff of Hogwarts slept soundly, a scream rent the still air, followed by a low, vicious chuckle—and then he saw them: green eyes. Lifeless. Blank. Dead._

No!

I couldn’t save—

_He awoke with a start, a cry half-strangled in his throat, and found himself tangled in a snare of bed sheets—a cold film of sweat covering his face, his breaths coming in ragged, heaving gasps._

_A nightmare. That was all._

_His eyes flitted closed. This was becoming an unwelcome routine; his pallid skin and under-eye shadows were testament to that. He briefly entangled his hands in his sheets, gripping them tight as he fought to get his breathing under control and his heartbeat steady._

_After a few moments, he released a trembling sigh, finally calm enough to settle down. He was quietly grateful that he’d at least had the sense to cast some silencing charms about before falling into the restless, uneasy unconsciousness that passed for sleep these days._

_Though the castle was silent as a tomb, he still heard that scream echoing faintly in the corners of the darkness, he still saw those eyes—_

_Oh_ god _—dead—gone—blank—and it was his fault—!_

 _Damn it, why couldn’t the past_ stay _in the past?_

_With a snarl he disentangled himself from his sheets and silently slipped out of bed, stretching in the cold moonlight that filtered through the high window, and pulled on his robes against the castle’s chill._

_No sleep tonight, then._

-

Grabbing his wand and invisibility cloak, Harry Potter stepped out of the door to Gryffindor Tower and into the hallway.

With a final glance at his rumpled bed, Severus Snape stepped out of his door to roam the halls.

——-

Harry tread lightly under the invisibility cloak as he stole past the sleeping portraits, careful not to disturb their slumber lest they report his after-curfew activities to Filch—or worse. A weak _Lumos_ lit his way, but he’d walked this path so many times in the past few weeks he could have traversed it with his eyes closed.

The damp chill of the air penetrated straight through his robes and seemed to seep into his very bones as the floor sloped ever-downward toward the dungeons. Before officially crossing into Slytherin territory, however, Harry made a quick left turn into a forgotten corridor. It was small and narrow, barely noticeable from the main thoroughfare, and students rarely came this way—it was as if even the ghosts avoided this passageway. As he passed rusted suits of armor and the occasional disused classroom, a certain atmospheric despair began to set in.

 _The charm of this place,_ he observed wryly.

A rush of dark satisfaction greeted him as he came upon the entrance to an abandoned lavatory and stepped inside. Still under the invisibility cloak, the familiar tarnished mirrors did not throw his reflection back at him, but he’d bet galleons to gobstones he looked as bad as he felt.

No matter—soon enough he would feel better.

He closed himself inside a stall near the end of the row, the same stall he always used, and only then did he slip the cloak from around his trembling shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Sighing, he sat back on the closed toilet lid. Relief, just within reach—

Harry rolled up his sleeve and drew his wand.

——-

The darkness always beckoned to Severus in times like these, nights when the boundary between present and past blurred and shifted, and he longed to remove himself altogether from the concepts of linear time and causality.

 _But I cannot go gentle into that good night,_ he reprimanded himself ruefully.

No, he had too much responsibility to indulge _that_. Pawn of two masters and reluctant protector of the Boy-Who-Lived… he was painfully aware that he tread a thin tightrope, but such was his lot in life.

An embittered string of words, the constant reminder of why.

 _In_ loving _memory of..._

But before he could even complete the thought, her green eyes flashed forcefully into his mind again, and his step faltered. For a moment, a surge of emotion threatened to overwhelm him. Harsh breath, swallowed sob.

_Why did she have to die?_

_Why did I let her—?_

With more effort than it should have taken, Severus forced the offending sentiment back into the locked boxes of his mind where it belonged and schooled his harsh features into a blank mask once again. He mentally scolded himself for displaying such weakness, but the weeks of sleeping poorly, peppered with nightmares, were taking their toll on him. Perpetual exhaustion weakened his defenses, and Severus Snape couldn’t afford to be weak. Not with so much at stake. Always put the war first, above his own needs and desires. Such was the life of a soldier, a spy.

He’d sold his soul to Voldemort; there was no going back.

For a man of discipline and control, he had surprisingly little control of his own life. Briefly, he entertained exerting the only control over his life he had left—ending it. This thought made his lips curl in a perverse smile. Wouldn’t it be nice to be done with all of this?

Except no, he couldn’t do that, because his life was not his own anymore; that belonged to Dumbledore.

His expression twisted into a scowl as he prowled the corridors though there was no one to direct his discontent toward save for the empty suits of armor standing silent sentinel over Hogwarts. Severus wouldn’t even care for the Headmaster’s claim on him except he knew the meddling old fool would work _tirelessly_ to save his sorry life for no other reason than to reserve the right to kill him himself, for being so selfish. These were times of war, and war afforded no room for selfishness. He had a role to play, promises to keep, and people to protect.

So in times like these, Severus was forced to content himself with working through scattered thoughts and shattered emotions in the solitude of Hogwarts’ halls—at the witching hour, as it were. This had been his routine as a student, too, especially in the weeks following the falling-out between himself and Lily. In this way, he had come to know the castle intimately.

Of course, holding the station of Professor afforded its own privileges: now he had every right to stalk these corridors past curfew without fear of being caught by Filch and sentenced to detention. Naturally, he knew every passageway and alcove he could escape to and—

And what, do _that?_ Again?

Severus exhaled sharply and chided himself. He was a damn _professor_ at the finest institution of magic in all of Britain, a master of his craft… but the thought taunted him, tempted him. _I’m way too old for such nonsense_ , he argued, as usual. And as usual, he lost the debate before it had begun.

It wasn’t any worse than taking the Dark Mark, he reasoned. Not by half. The excruciating pain of that curse would be seared into his memory forever, just as the grotesque skull-and-serpent was forever seared into his flesh. Even thinking of the Mark brought a rush of shame, hot and vile, that burned at the back of his throat, and Severus felt vaguely nauseous.

But then… _this_ pain was different. Not excruciating, exquisite.

He didn’t realize that he’d already decided until he found himself taking a sharp right turn into a nearly hidden passageway by the dungeons. He felt his body move automatically, tracing the familiar path to what he considered his private domain: a disused lavatory he used to seek refuge in during his school days and continued to frequent, after he became employed in Dumbledore’s service, whenever he didn’t want to be found.

He reached for the door to his hideout and felt a light anticipatory thrill at the thought of using his spell, the one created for _this_ first and foremost. “For enemies,” indeed.

Severus’ greatest enemy had always been himself.

But a noise from behind the door, within the lavatory, caused him to freeze like a spotted animal. Everything seemed to come into sharp focus at once, and suspicion slithered into his mind.

No one ever came here, not as long as he could remember.

His eyes narrowed in irritation; whoever was here had summarily ruined his plans. Something was going on, and he intended to find out. He drew his wand and slowly pushed open the door.

——-

Recalling the curse scrawled in the margins of that strange Potions text he’d acquired, Harry pointed his wand at his arm and hissed, “ _Sectumsempra_.” A thin line of red wavered into existence, bringing with it a welcome sting. It only lasted a scant moment before fading away.

Harry frowned.

Those dull green eyes from his nightmare haunted him, from sleep to wakefulness and back to dreams again. They were Cedric’s eyes, cold and dead. Dead, because of him. A pair of grey eyes joined the green in judgment. These belonged to Sirius, who was also _dead, dead, dead_ , because of him.

Far too many people died because of Harry. He’d never really identified with the image of “the Boy-Who-Lived,” but these days he was almost willing to adopt the title of, “the Boy-Who-Got-Everyone-Killed.”

Well, maybe not. It wasn’t really as catchy as the other one, even in his head.

If he was really honest with himself, he knew it was because of his own lack of planning and disregard for the rules. He admitted—only to himself, during these rare moments of hard introspection—that in some ways, a certain hated professor was right about him. It wasn’t so much that he thought he was better than others, more that he could only truly rely on himself, but the effects of his act-first, ask-for-help-later policy were the same.

Dumbledore enabled this behavior, and this had made him feel justified in his actions, allowed him to absolve himself of the blame... for a little while. But deep down, he recognized a tendency to be downright reckless.

But now there was a war on, and he could no longer afford to be reckless when so many lives depended on him.

That was why he needed to punish himself like this. It was a lesson to learn so that next time he would _think_ before acting. It was for all the people who weren’t here because Harry was.

He needed more.

“ _Sectumsempra_!” he tried again, a little louder. This time a nice red line appeared and kept its color for longer. The pain was sharper. More, deeper, now.

“ _Sectumsempra_! _Sectumsempra_! Sectumsempra!”

He exhaled heavily, reveling in the pain blossoming in his arms, travelling in his veins, filling his core. Fresh scarlet lines crisscrossed the white scars that lay upon them like lace. Blood coursed in small rivulets, drip-dropping onto the floor and pooling in the grout between the tiles. He took a sick pleasure in the sight. He’d never go to Azkaban for the deaths he’d unwittingly caused, but at least this was some form of justice, crude though it was.

He raised his wand again, pressing it to his inner wrist, but stiffened when he heard a noise. A soft click—the opening of the door.

Harry’s breath caught. Who would be here of all places? He stilled, heart beating rapidly, willing himself to take quiet, shallow breaths. Surely there wasn’t anyone here? Perhaps he’d imagined it in his paranoia...

Reassured by this thought, he relaxed marginally. He was about to reposition his wand when he heard it again. There—a footstep! This time, unmistakable. Someone was here with him. Who could possibly—?

Another footstep, closer.

Panic flooded Harry’s mind. Oh god, this was bad. He couldn’t get caught doing something like _this_... Rita Skeeter would catch wind, he’d be all over the _Prophet_ quicker than you could say ‘quidditch.’ He could just imagine the sensationalized headlines: _More scars for Scarhead?_ This would ruin his reputation, what little respect he had in the eyes of the public would be gone...

Another footstep. _Please, please no..._ Harry willed himself to be as still and silent and small as possible. The footsteps kept coming, slow and methodical, closer and closer until....

They stopped.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, hoping against hope that whoever was there would just go away. For a long moment, nothing happened. He tentatively opened his eyes again. Perhaps they had left?

He waited a moment more, a breathless handful of seconds that stretched on and transcended the normal constraints of time, but all remained still.

Yes, that must be it. _Thank Merlin._ He began to exhale a sigh of relief when suddenly the door to the stall burst open.

There, towering over him, was Professor Snape.

Harry ducked his head. 

“Well, well,” Snape drawled. “What do we have here? Mr. Potter, out of bed at—” He broke off. For a moment the only sound was the steady drip-drip on the lavatory floor.

The silence was telling. Harry didn’t even need to look up to know.

_Steady now. Just breathe..._

Mustering every scrap of that famed Gryffindor courage, he dragged his eyes up to his professor’s face, but Snape’s gaze was focused on Harry’s arm. Harry felt his heart beating frantically, panic threatening to overwhelm him.

This was the worst possible scenario. He wished it had been someone else, anyone else, to find him. Dumbledore. Hermione. Even sodding _Malfoy_. Okay, maybe not _him_ , but hell, he’d enthusiastically accept a showdown with _Voldemort_ over… this.

Snape drew himself up to his full height, staring down his nose at Harry, face inscrutable. Harry held his breath. What would the acerbic man have to say about Harry’s little problem? He could imagine easily enough.

_Our resident celebrity… is a pathetic cutter. How can he ever hope to defeat Voldemort when he can’t even face the consequences of his own failures? How will the Wizarding World ever be able to place their trust in such a fragile, worthless boy?_

Instead, the only words that came were a muttered, “Follow me,” before he turned in a swish of robes and strode toward the door. Harry wasn’t foolish enough to think the words were a request, yet they lacked the usual malice that infused every syllable Snape uttered.

Belatedly, Harry scrambled to gather his Invisibility Cloak and push the sleeves of his robe down. He aimed a quick cleaning charm at the floor before tucking away his wand and scurrying after Snape. Best not to leave any evidence. It was bad enough that the Potions Master knew; he couldn’t take the (admittedly unlikely) risk of anyone else finding out.

In grim silence, the pair made their ways through the labyrinth of corridors that led to Hogwarts’ dungeons. Harry’s mind was racing. What was going to happen to him? Detention for a year? Detention till _graduation?_ If they didn’t expel him on grounds of mental instability first… was there a room at St. Mungo’s with his name on it?

Dread coiled in the bottom of his stomach as they decended and the chill damp of the air penetrated his bones even further. Involuntarily, he shivered; from the cold or the fear, he wasn’t certain. He was just thankful that at this hour, no Slytherins were milling about in the hallways to witness his disgrace, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that one would jump out from around a corner any moment now.

Eventually, they reached a blank expanse of stone wall. The Professor tapped the bricks in a complicated pattern. Almost instantly, the bricks responded, popping out and shifting in strange, magical patterns until a heavy wooden door with wrought iron fastenings appeared. Snape tapped the door with his wand again, and it swung open. He glided into the room beyond.

Harry paused before the open door, afraid to even look inside. _Snape’s private quarters?_ How could he? He’d probably be hexed the second he set foot across the threshold, or repelled by the strong wards that surely guarded the man’s rooms, or any number of other nasty safeguards. As Harry grappled with the dilemma, an irritated voice beckoned him in.

“Quit dithering, foolish child, and _enter.”_

Harry hastily stepped across the threshold and into the Great Unknown. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find. A torture dungeon maybe—complete with racks and manacles and an iron maiden? Bare, gloomy walls dimly lit by lanterns that flickered ethereally, shadows jumping in menacing dances? But Harry found none of that.

Instead, he stepped into a room decorated in warm earth tones. A soft rug in shades of brown covered the sitting area by the fireplace which cast a warm and inviting glow throughout the room. Framing the hearth was a rich velvet couch and two easy chairs. Between them sat a low coffee table. A Slytherin tapestry done in customary House colors hung on one wall, with silver-threaded snakes winding between an ornate _S_ on an emerald background, eternally slithering around and around its edges. A small dining table was placed near the wall, cluttered with papers and potions journals but for one place cleared away. It was evident that the man rarely entertained company.

And, oh, the _bookshelves_. They covered the unoccupied walls, floor-to-ceiling, housing hundreds of books, many appearing ancient and rare. Hermione would have transcended this plane of existence at the sight.

“Sit.”

Harry had almost forgotten about the Professor amid his fascinated examination of the man’s quarters, until he heard the barked command. He noticed him now, standing near another door that led to an unknown room, pointing one spindly finger toward the couch.

Harry hesitantly crossed the room to the sitting area indicated by the professor. He gingerly perched on the plum-colored velvet couch. It looked like something from the Victorian era, all heavy wood and worn fabric, but not entirely uncomfortable.

“Don’t move.”

Snape crossed his arms and pinned Harry with an intense stare until, seemingly satisfied that Harry would comply, he whirled around and disappeared through the doorway. Harry couldn’t help but feel as if the man had been dissecting him with his eyes, studying him like potion ingredients.

He returned a moment later with what looked like a first-aid kit, but instead of plastic tubes of antiseptic, little glass vials of potions were neatly arranged in the box.

“Give me your arm.” A low murmur.

Harry shrank back against the couch, wary of the professor. Where was all of his sarcasm, his venom? Why hadn’t he insulted him yet? Perhaps he was just waiting until he could tell his Snakes all about pitiful Harry Potter…

“Your _arm_ , child.” Slightly more forceful.

Harry shook his head minutely. It was enough that Snape had seen it once; he really didn’t want to bare all. Maybe Snape hadn’t seen how bad it was? _He only got a glimpse_ , he desperately rationalized. Maybe he could convince him it wasn’t so bad.

“That’s okay, Professor, I don’t need—if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just be go—”

A careful but firm grip on his injured arm cut him off.

“It is _not_ all the same to me, Potter,” Snape growled. “Now, relax, and let me work.”

The Potions Master tugged Harry’s arm forward and gently pulled the blood-soaked sleeve back. Only then did Harry realize that the blood had seeped right through the fabric and pooled on the couch, a sizable stain spreading over the antique fabric.

Instinctual fear shot through Harry like an electric shock. _Oh Merlin, I’ve made a mess of Snape’s furniture… he’ll kill me!_

“I’m sorry!” he gasped. “Sir, I’m so sorry sir I’ll clean it up right away! Let me go, I’ll—please don’t—”

“Hush.”

——-

Distractedly, Severus waved his wand to vanish the stain, not sparing it a second thought. Merlin knew he had enough reason to perfect such cleaning spells; between his own vice and the Death Eater meetings, things could often get… messy.

“Now,” he murmured, pitching his voice low as if talking to a scared animal, “This will sting.”

Severus reached inside his medi-kit and withdrew a vial of brownish liquid: essence of dittany. He uncorked the vial with his teeth, still keeping a firm grip on the boy’s arm, and carefully tipped it over the open cuts. A drop landed on each gash, glinted for a moment, then absorbed into the wound. He worked quickly, deftly wrapping a bandage around the arm and securing it with a sticking charm. Finally he pulled two more vials of potion from the medi-kit, one a light blue and the other a dark gold, that he instructed him to drink. The boy did so without complaint, a small mercy, though he remained tense all the while.

Severus sat back in grim satisfaction. He fixed his gaze on Potter, noting that the boy kept his own gaze glued to his lap.

“Potter.”

The boy recoiled a little, still not meeting his eyes. Impatience flared in Severus for a moment before rationality took over. The ‘scared animal’ analogy was accurate; he might say the boy was terrified, even—now that he’d been caught, and by his least favorite professor no less.

Severus had always been careful not to get discovered himself though he sometimes suspected Albus knew. The old man never said anything, but on the days following Severus’ little ‘accidents’ (usually after Death Eater meetings, recently), Albus would fix him with those damned eyes that seemed to pierce him to his very soul, a sadness hidden in their depths and a tight smile on his lips.

If the older wizard did know, he seemed perfectly content to never discuss the issue with him. Whether it was out of a kind-intentioned avoidance of unnecessary awkwardness or because he truly viewed it as a non-issue, Severus didn’t know, nor did he care to find out. But he could fully understand Potter’s reluctance.

Severus was also acutely aware of the history between himself and the boy. To say merely that they were not the best of friends would be a grave understatement. Part of him even took a sort of twisted pleasure in the boy’s discomfort.

If circumstances had been different, he wouldn’t even feel guilty about it. He could so easily see James in the mop of dark hair, the lanky figure in front of him, and this brought the ghost of a cruel smile to his lips for just an instant, then it vanished—for he could also see himself: sullen, scared, distrusting of anyone. And though he tried desperately to deny it, the barest tendril of sympathy was worming its way into his heart.

He sighed, resigned, and tried again.

“Harry.”

This time, the boy looked up at him, surprise flashing in his green eyes that were so much like Lily’s.

“Yes, sir?”

“You will explain—” Severus began, but stopped as something in the corner of his vision caught his eye. Swiftly, he glanced down at Potter’s arm, and with a muttered oath noticed that blood was still seeping through the bandage, bright red like jequirity beans against the stark white linen.

The dittany should have healed the wounds—why hadn’t it worked? This could mean only one thing: the injury was not physical, but magical, in nature.

 _“What did you do?”_ Severus growled, low and menacing now. Potter stared back owlishly, not quite comprehending.

“I—I think you know what I did...”

“The _curse!”_ he all but spat.

_Keep it together, Severus, now is not the time to lose your temper._

Severus leaned forward, eyes keen, bridging the space between them. He took a deep breath—one, two—out. “What _curse_ did you use?”

——-

“I, erm—I don’t—” Harry spluttered, frantically looking everywhere but at his professor. Instinct urged him not to reveal the secrets contained within the pages of the Potions book that once belonged to the mysterious Half-Blood Prince. The gears of his mind spun in an attempt to concoct a believable lie, but he was getting nowhere fast. He could tell he was trying Snape’s patience, however kind (could he use the word kind?) the man had been to him tonight.

_“What. Curse.”_

“Sectumsempra!” Harry blurted.

 _“Sectum...”_ The Potions Master trailed off, the remaining color drained from his already-pale face. Harry started at him in confusion. Snape’s eyes glittered with a strange emotion, and if Harry didn’t know better, he might’ve said it was regret. For the briefest of moments the Professor looked pained before dispelling the expression altogether. Instead, bowed his head and peeled off the bandage.

“W-What are you doing? …Professor?” The atmosphere of the room had become suddenly leaden, and Harry wondered if he’d said the wrong thing.

“Silence.” Snape pointed his wand at the cuts and muttered in Latin.

 _“Vulnera Sanentur.”_ The blood still leaking from Harry’s wounds began to stagnate.

“ _Vulnera Sanentur.”_ His arm was cleansed as with a wet rag, the sticky residue banishing itself.

“ _Vulnera Sanentur.”_ The cuts knitted together as if they hadn’t been there at all.

Harry stared in quiet awe at the newly healed flesh. Of course, the old scars still criss-crossed the interior of his forearm, as it was far too late to heal _those_ , but the ones he’d made just a half hour ago had completely disappeared. He gingerly touched his skin.

“Now,” the Professor’s low voice cut through his fascination. “You will tell me _why_ you are regularly slicing yourself to ribbons.”

Anger flared within Harry as he defiantly held the gaze of those fathomless black eyes—void, like the man’s heart, probably, with only the barest glint of something he didn’t understand hidden in their depths to suggest he was human at all. Why would Snape want to know? Ever since Harry was eleven the man had hated his guts, and Harry had no trouble admitting that the feeling was mutual.

And now he suddenly cared? Not bloody likely.

If Harry knew one thing, it was never to trust a Slytherin, and Snape was a Slytherin as they came. No doubt he wanted to file the answer away and use the knowledge against him as some kind of spiteful blackmail. Surely, he’d only tolerated him this long in an attempt to lull Harry into a false sense of trust, but Harry wouldn’t fall for it. He’d thoroughly learned his lesson last year.

“What does it matter?” he retorted hotly.

“ _Because_ ,” Snape stressed the word as if he were talking to a particularly dim-witted flobberworm. “You are a _student_ and I am a _professor_ and that makes your welfare _my responsibility_.”

“I bet you can’t wait to tell all your slimy Slytherins what you caught _‘poor Harry Potter’_ doing, can you?” Harry accused.

In a remarkable display of self-restraint that wasn’t lost on Harry, Snape ignored the accusation entirely. “The way I see it, you have few options.” He leaned back, tapping his fingers on the edge of the chair he was occupying as if considering some matter carefully before continuing. “Your safety is imperative to Dumbledore, and so I must inform the Headmaster of this recent… development. I have no choice in the matter; this is not up for debate.”

“I—” Harry began, then he looked down. There was no use arguing, and the alternative to involving the Headmaster was to allow Snape alone the power of this knowledge. The thought of Snape holding it over his head, unchecked, was not appealing. At least Dumbledore would be fair… he hoped. “Yes, sir.”

“Furthermore, I should take this matter to your Head of House and let Professor McGonagall deal with it. That is protocol. But somehow, I don’t think it…” he paused, frowned. “…prudent.”

Harry imagined McGonagall staring down her nose at him, the judgment plain in her eyes. Gryffindors were supposed to be stronger than this, braver than this. He’d just bring shame to his House if they knew.

“Why?” Harry asked, genuinely curious. It wasn’t like Snape to do him (or anyone) any favors.

“Because,” Snape replied, lip curling in thinly veiled contempt, “the usual rules do not typically apply to famous Harry Potter. _You_ seem to be the exception to every policy and protocol in place at this school, and so I will delay action until I have conferred with the Headmaster on how he wishes to proceed.”

“I see,” he returned coolly.

Silence stretched between them for a long moment and Harry became suddenly aware of how tired he was. Amid the panic of waking from yet another nightmare and being caught by a professor, the late hour had become meaningless, but now the adrenaline was wearing off. The warmth of the fire in the hearth and the hazy, soft glow it cast upon the room did nothing to stave off the encroaching drowsiness, and Harry stifled a yawn.

“Right,” Snape started brusquely, leveling a stare at Harry and waiting until he had his full attention, “We can discuss this matter later. It is quite late—”

“Of course, sir, I’ll just be going then—”

“—and I daresay I do not _trust_ you to just head back to your tower and go to sleep like a good little Gryffindor.” The last words were said with a sneer. “No. That won’t happen. Therefore,” he paused, grimaced, then appeared to have to force the rest of the sentence out, “you will stay here tonight, where I can keep an eye on you.”

“ _Here!”_ Harry gasped incredulously. “In _your_ quarters?”

“Did I stutter?” Snape retorted severely.

“N-No sir. I just... am surprised, is all,” Harry mumbled, glancing away. He wanted to protest, but found he didn’t have the energy for it. Any place to sleep was as good as another at this point, and he was reasonably sure he wouldn’t wake up in the morning to find he’d been murdered in his sleep after all.

“First thing in the morning,” Snape continued, and Harry pulled his attention back to the present conversation, “I will have a little chat with the Headmaster. Until then…” He waved his wand, and a trunk flung open. A pillow and a blanket nestled inside drifted up and through the air to settle on the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. If you should need anything, you may knock on my door—first door on the right. The rooms are of course warded; should you get up to any mischief, I _will_ know. Oh, and Potter?”

Harry glanced up. “Sir?”

“Your wand.”

“But—!”

_“Now.”_

Sullenly, Harry placed his wand in his professor’s outstretched hand. Long pale fingers curled around it and stashed it away. With that, Snape rose and glided down the hall out of sight, leaving Harry to make up the couch and settle in for the remainder of the night.

Despite the strange circumstances and the fact he was to spend the night in Professor Snape’s quarters, all that was on Harry’s mind was getting a good night’s rest. Belatedly, he wondered if one of the vials Snape had given him was a sleeping potion. That would be just like him, the bastard.

But Harry was too tired to care; he’d already drifted off.

——-

Severus closed the door to his bedroom, slipped off his robes, and sank into a desk chair. Almost as an afterthought, he flicked his wand, warding his bedroom against curious boys.

Only then did he allow himself to relax. Now that he had attended to the most urgent of tasks, he let his mind consider the events of the evening.

The irony of discovering Potter doing exactly what _he_ had set out to do did not escape him. He felt like a hypocrite, tending to Potter’s self-inflicted injuries while at the same time intending to cause harm to himself. But Severus’ case was different. What did the Boy-Who-Lived have to be so depressed about that he used curses to slice his arms?

And not just any curse; _Sectumsempra_ , Severus’ own creation! That reality hit him like a punch to the gut, and he sunk lower in his chair, covering his face with one hand. Where had the boy even learned that curse? Though he fully intended to find out later, Severus didn’t think it seemed so important just now.

What was important was that he’d failed. He’d failed everyone.

Dumbledore—for allowing Potter to get to this point unnoticed. Severus was supposed to be watching him from the shadows, guiding him toward his destiny. Keeping him safe from harm. He always prided himself in his skills of observation. Nothing got by him! Nothing except… this. He couldn’t even keep Potter safe from himself.

Hogwarts, for letting a student hurt themselves. Another thing Severus took pride in was his position as Professor and Head of Slytherin House. He regarded his responsibilities very seriously. Naturally, he’d encountered all manner of troubled students during his tenure at Hogwarts, as had all the Heads of House. They’d dealt with students who were experiencing bullying and abuse, students who were abusing substances, students with eating disorders, and so forth. He’d also had past cases of self-harming and, Merlin forbid, suicidal students—and he’d handled all of those cases with grace and discretion. Being distinctly aware of popular bias against Slytherin House, Severus focused most of his efforts to looking out for his own, but he kept an eye out for trouble with any of Hogwarts’ students. As a professor, it was his job to maintain a standard of quality, and that simply did not allow for overlooking a student’s distress, not even a bloody Gryffindor.

Harry, for letting him get to this point at all, for letting him think it was okay to hurt himself to deal with whatever pain he must be feeling. Of course, Severus dealt with his pain the same way, but that was different—he was a spy, he’d been a _Death Eater_. He’d done unforgivable things, things he’d never be able to atone for if he had a thousand lives to live. But Harry… was just a child. Sixteen years old. Sure, he’d lost people in this war too: his parents and that mangy mutt—though Severus had no love lost for him, even he realized how close the two had been. Still, he was too young to be feeling so devoid of hope, so alone, that he turned to the metaphorical blade to cope. (Severus himself had been twelve.)

And Lily. Oh _Merlin_ , Lily. It was true that after that disastrous day, Severus and Lily had never spoken again, but with the rise of the Dark Lord and Death Eater activity, he’d made a promise to himself that he would do all he could to keep her safe. He remembered all too vividly the night that his best friend was murdered, or at least his reaction to the news—a blur of tears and anger and soul-wrenching pain, a desire to join her, and the commitment that stayed his hand: Lily lived on in her child, this child that had defeated the greatest Dark wizard of his time, and Severus swore then he would protect him to his dying breath. It was the least he could do for Lily.

And he’d failed her. He’d let harm come to her son by the boy’s own hand. Severus wasn’t sure he could forgive himself for that. He knew Lily wouldn’t. If only he’d done better…

In that moment he didn’t care if it was wrong, or if it made him a hypocrite, or what Albus would say, or if the very Fates were laughing at him now; he slowly, methodically unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve and withdrew from his desk drawer a Potions knife.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking a bit longer than I intended to for this chapter; it was already written, but I kept editing, and editing, and I'd probably edit some more if I didn't have a few readers eager for me to just post already! I am half-asleep as I post this, so I do hope what I'm delivering with this update... makes sense. But I can't say how excited I am that I've gotten such positive and enthusiastic feedback from my first chapter, it's truly encouraging. 
> 
> I wanted to take a moment to address a concern raised by someone regarding the previous chapter. I was told that the way I wrote a particular scene may come across as if I were saying that suicide is a selfish act, and I'd like to clarify that I am not passing any condemnation on such topics through my work. I understand that it can be a delicate and sensitive subject, and I don't want to alienate my readers or make them feel judged. In that scene I was merely conveying the state of mind and thoughts of that particular character. You might find that as the fic progresses, the characters involved cycle through many conflicting, sometimes problematic, views and attitudes toward 'heavy' subject matter, and that is meant merely to speak to how deeply conflicted the characters are with themselves and their own situations as they grow in the course of the plot. 
> 
> CW for this chapter: graphic depiction/discussion of self-harm, suicidal ideation

"Severus, my boy, sit down! I wasn't expecting you for breakfast! What a delight!"

The early morning sun's rays were dampened by fog that still hung like a phantom's breath over the mountains and the towers of Hogwarts. The muted dawn light filtered weakly through the windows into the Headmaster's office. Albus was an early riser; Severus had never yet caught him before he'd awoken. He had, however, made sure that Potter was still asleep before slipping into the Floo and up to his office.

"Sit, sit!" Albus encouraged, waving to an overstuffed plush chair. "I'll have the house-elves conjure us a nice breakfast. This wouldn't be a social visit, would it?"

Severus perched on the edge of the chair, refusing to relax into it fully. "I'm afraid not."

"Those have become too rare," he shook his head. "What brings you here so early, then?" 

Albus laid his folded hands on his desk and leaned forward in earnest. Severus fought the urge to tilt away from the old man's face.

"It seems your Golden Boy has... a problem."

"You mean our dear boy Harry?" 

"The very same," Severus sneered.

"And that would be?"

"He's been..." Severus halted, worked the muscles of his suddenly too-dry throat, forced the words past anyway. "He's been hurting himself."

Albus remained unconcerned. "Between quidditch and his penchant for danger, I'm hardly surprised..."

"On _purpose_ , Albus."

"Oh, well, that is quite a problem then," Albus murmured. He leaned back in his chair and waved a hand. A tray of tea appeared. "Can I get you anything, Severus? A drink, biscuits, some blood replenishing potion? Perhaps some healing salve?"

"I have already tended to the boy's self-inflicted injuries—"

"For yours."

Severus stiffened in his chair. For a choked moment he couldn’t remember how to swallow and his fingers curled into an involuntary fist, but his voiced denial was measured and steady. 

"I've no idea what you're talking about, Albus…"

"Severus." The word was low and dangerous, a warning, and it stopped him dead. Albus held his gaze coldly, that ever-present twinkle having vanished. “You cannot fool me. I know what you do to yourself. I have known for years."

Sharp cognizance of a lifetime of suffering—suffering that could have been alleviated but was freely allowed to continue, unchecked—stretched taut between the two, the implication of the admission not lost on either. Severus’ expression betrayed no emotion because there was no emotion to betray, at first; but as the silence stretched thinner, fury began to build in his chest, beginning as a low buzz and increasing in amplitude with each cycle of his thoughts until he could no longer remain subdued. 

"Why?" he growled. He wasn't surprised—he'd suspected Albus knew, of course—but the flagrant admission and lack of action (or even _compassion_ ) on his part was outrageous. "If you knew, _why_ didn't you say something? _Do_ something? All those years, you pretended to care—"

"I do care, Severus."

"Merlin's _balls_ , Albus, Potter and Black tried to kill me when I was fifteen. _Kill._ And you wrote it off as a bloody prank, gave them a slap on the wrist, and had a laugh over it. Perhaps you truly do care for your Golden Gryffindors, but don't pretend that after all these years, you actually give a shit about _me_ , _"_ he hissed. 

At some point he’d knocked back his own chair and planted both hands on the desk to lean over the still-seated Headmaster, breath coming in gasps. A chasm of sadness stared back at him from tired blue eyes. 

Albus heaved a sigh. "Do not mistake my inaction for approval, Severus."

“No, of course not. I see it clearly for the act of friendship and good will you intended,” Severus snarked, straightening and crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Even as a youth, you were prone to this behavior. Such an isolated boy,” the old man mused. “I know you didn't have the most ideal childhood—"

“And what, exactly, do you know?” A narrow-eyed challenge. 

"— and that you carry a great burden of pain and guilt in your heart for your youthful indiscretions, and for… those you could not save." The old man's eyes gleamed in the morning light. "I know you blame yourself."

"Because it _was_ my fault. If I hadn't told the Dark Lord that blasted half-heard prophecy... if I hadn't…" he trailed off, anguish etched in his features, then averted his eyes and sighed heavily. 

"I know," Albus murmured soothingly. "I do not agree with your... coping method, but I recognize it has helped you, insofar as such a method can. But Severus, you need not punish yourself for past mistakes."

“Then who would you suggest do so in my stead? Place an advert in the _Prophet_ , and you will have a line of eager applicants out your door,” he retorted in a dry tone. 

Albus shook his head gravely. "The past cannot be changed. Your actions in recent years show that you have realized the error of your past choices, and that you seek to set things right. I see that you are trying to atone."

"I can never... _never_ atone for what I have done..."

"You are perhaps the most crucial asset to the Light, Severus. Your betrayal of Voldemort and work as a spy has provided valuable information that could very well win us this war. You _have_ redeemed yourself, if not in the eyes of those who will never know, at least in mine. It has pained me greatly to stand witness to your cycle of self-destruction, my boy."

Severus snorted in disdain. "If you are so greatly pained by my own, why have you never once intervened?"

"You are an adult, capable of making your own choices. I did not see it as my place to intrude—"

" _No_ ,” he cut in imperiously. “It is because I'm just an 'asset' to you, a pawn to be manipulated in order to win this war. Anything that keeps your chess pieces moving as they should is excusable. Permissible, even. If I were not bound to you by duty, I promise you I would take my leave of this wretched world," he muttered darkly.

"Severus! You don't mean that!" Albus exclaimed, shocked.

"Don't I?" he answered coolly.

Albus gazed at him remorsefully. "I have failed you, I'm afraid. I have failed you and Harry both, if you think this is an acceptable way to channel your pain. Nevertheless, I shall try to help you to the best of my abilities…"

Severus favored Albus with a contemptuous sneer. "Your efforts would be wasted on me.”

"No, I don't believe that. _You_ have spent years believing that of yourself,” Albus shook his head once more. “But Harry is just a boy. I believe that we can reach him."

“And how did you try to reach me when I was _just a boy?”_ Severus shook his head sharply, dismissing that line of inquiry. “But we are not here to talk about me, we’re here to talk about Potter. He—wait,” he paused, regarding Albus with eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “Did you say _we?”_

"Oh yes. To be more precise, _you_." The twinkle was back in the old man's eyes.

"Certainly not!" Severus protested. "Are you _mad?_ I patched him up and brought the matter to your attention. I have done my duty."

"But Severus, don't you see? You share his experiences. You can understand his motivations in a way I'm afraid I cannot. This places you in a unique position to be able to help him."

Severus smiled blandly, a curling of the lips that did not touch his eyes. “Then it is most fortunate for me that the discipline of Gryffindor students is Minerva’s domain. She would not take kindly to interference from Slytherin House. Thus, Potter is now her problem.” 

“And as Headmaster of this school, my rule supersedes that of even the Heads of House. I do not wish to involve Minerva in this situation at this time, and my decision is final.”

“Minerva has been Head of Gryffindor House longer than I’ve been _alive_ , Albus. She’s more than capable of handling a troubled student. Why shouldn’t she be involved?”

“I have noticed that Minerva has a tendency to be slightly… biased—” Albus held up a hand to forestall another bout of indignation from Severus, “—and while she has my utmost trust and respect as a colleague and as an individual, I do not think her style of management would be conducive to Harry’s long-term recovery. You, however,” and now he peered over the top of his spectacles, “can apply your background and provide the sort of structure young Harry needs most right now. I have every confidence that you will be able to help him.” 

“Me? Help Potter?” At this, Severus laughed, an abrupt, humorless sound. “The boy distrusts me. He’ll never consent to my… help.”

"Oh, I think if you give it a try, you'll find his abilities are many."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"I daresay he can help you as well." Albus fixed him with a level gaze. "This is not a request, Severus."

Severus glowered at Albus, then stalked from the room in a flurry of billowing robes without another word. 

——-

Harry was first aware of a profoundly warm feeling. Hazily, he snuggled deeper into the couch, pulling his blanket tight around himself. He also gradually became aware of a dull pounding in his head. As he ascended toward consciousness, the pounding seemed to intensify until the inside of his skull was absolutely shrieking, and he let slip a small groan of discomfort. 

At that moment, though he hadn’t yet opened his eyes, he noticed that his surroundings felt distinctly different than the familiar coziness of his dorm in Gryffindor Tower, and his body jerked involuntarily at the sudden realization that he didn’t know where he was. An instant later, the previous night’s events flooded his memory and he groaned again—this time in embarrassment. 

Harry slowly got the feeling that someone was watching him. He felt a pair of eyes boring into his back, and he desperately wanted to avoid facing their owner.

Maybe he could pretend to be asleep still, and Snape would go away… 

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Potter."

"Go to hell."

"I believe we are already there."

So much for that. He turned over, flinging the blanket off himself in the process and sitting up in one fluid motion. Wrong move. The edges of his vision grayed out and the floor came rushing up at him, accompanied by a tidal wave of pain in his head and a roaring in his ears. Before he could make contact, however, a strong pair of arms caught him and propped him up against the back of the couch. He concentrated on his breathing for a moment before the feeling receded and he dared to open his eyes once more. "...the hell?"

"Drink."

A glass of cool water and a reddish potion were thrust into Harry's hands. He opted to drink the potion first. With any luck, it was a fast-acting poison that would allow him to escape this mortifying situation, into the sweet embrace of Death. But alas, it merely dulled his headache. Next he sipped the water, not realizing just how parched he was until it touched his cracked lips and slid smoothly down his throat, quenching his thirst like the first rains after a drought. Quickly gulping the rest of the glass, he sighed with the last sip and handed the empty glass back to Snape. Only then did he dare look him in the eye.

Snape sat leisurely in the easy chair across from the couch, one ankle rested on his knee, elbows thrown back on the armrests. He regarded Harry with narrowed eyes and a faint smirk played about his lips, but his voice was devoid of sarcasm when he asked, "Better?"

"Much."

Snape banished the glass with a lazy wave of his hand. "Yes, dehydration is an unfortunate side effect of blood loss."

Harry bristled at his superior attitude, acting like he knew all about the medical arts. The Professor had finally gotten the DADA position this year—what, would he set his sights on Madam Pomfrey’s job next? 

A thought came unbidden to his mind: _but he was a Death Eater_. This sobered Harry. Maybe the man knew from personal experience. He could’ve been injured, or seen someone get injured… had Snape killed before? Harry knew he was in the Order, and Dumbledore seemed to trust him, but what had he done in the service of Voldemort? A vague nausea roiled in his stomach—he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to that question.

This train of thought was derailed when Snape shifted in his chair, leaning forward and placing his hands on his knees, and spoke.

"We have some things to discuss."

 _Oh Merlin, here it comes..._ Harry wanted to be anywhere else. He schooled his features into what he hoped was a neutral expression and answered, "What is there to discuss? Sir?"

"The fact that you carve your arms like a Christmas ham."

Harry winced at Snape's blunt description. "Why are _you_ asking?" he retorted. "Why can't I talk to Dumbledore? You said you were going to tell him—"

" _Professor_ Dumbledore. I have discussed the matter with the Headmaster and he has entrusted me to handle the... delicacies of this situation." Snape held up a hand to forestall Harry's protest. "He has other matters to attend to at the moment."

Harry slumped back into the couch. So that was it. Dumbledore was ashamed of him for his cowardice and failure to uphold the tenets of Gryffindor House and wanted nothing to do with him, so he pawned him off on the Head Greaseball himself.

"This behavior needs to stop," Snape said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, okay, fine. I won't do it anymore, whatever. Can I go now?"

"No," Snape stated shortly. "You have given me no reason to believe you are sincere. In fact, I suspect you are trying to placate me so you can escape and avoid dealing with this. Like it or not Potter, you are stuck with me, and I intend to see this through to the end."

Harry's eyes widened in alarm. For the first time, the full implications of his situation sunk in. The man was really serious! He took a shuddering breath and steeled himself for the answer to the burning question, though he had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t like it one bit. 

"When _can_ I return to Gryffindor Tower? Surely you don't intend to keep me _here_ ," he waved a hand, taking in the room, "forever?"

"Since there is no way I can monitor you from there, I think you shall stay with me until I can be sure you will not harm yourself again." Snape said this with a grimace. Harry choked.

"Here! With _you_?" he spluttered.

"That's what I said, is it not? This is not up for discussion. You will stay in the guest room in the interim. Second door on the left," he added.

Harry pressed his lips into a thin line, making his displeasure plain.

Snape continued once the objections were over. "Now, I will ask you once more, and you will not avoid my question this time," he hesitated for a split second, "Harry. Why are you doing this?"

Harry looked up sharply at the use of his name, but he did not answer, instead glaring defiantly at the Potions Master. Snape sighed.

"I will get this information from you, Potter, willingly or no."

"Make me."

"If you insist." Snape caught Harry's gaze and pinned him with an intense, glittering stare. Harry belatedly realized what Snape was about to do but had no time to react before Snape leveled his wand at him and hissed, "Legilimens!"

Harry felt the push of Snape's mind against his before his own defenses yielded to the more powerful wizard's attack. He could _feel_ him in his head, carding through his memories, but was powerless to stop him. 

Snape's inquiry was clear: _Why do you hurt yourself?_

Images of the Department of Mysteries flashed through his mind. He could hear Voldemort whispering to him…

He was in Snape's office as the man cast Legilimens at him. He desperately tried to block the attack, but his Occlumency skills were rubbish.

A hissed command: "Focus!" Harry tied to collect himself, to redouble his efforts, but a firm grasp of the mind arts eluded him, and the acrid tang of failure burned in the back of his throat.

Sirius was before him now, eyes pleading as he fell through the Veil, but all he could hear was the triumphant cackling of Bellatrix Lestrange and the sibilant whispers he should’ve learned to block. 

"No!" Grief broke over Harry like a wave.

The scene shifted.

He stood in a clearing, and a high, thin, voice commanded, "Kill the spare!" A flash of green light, and Cedric's body lay before him, and his now-lifeless green eyes stared up at Harry, somehow accusing even in death.

Another shift. 

He cowered in a cupboard under the stairs as a rotund man's face loomed over him, contorted with rage.

"You worthless boy! You should've died with your no-good parents in that car wreck!"

The main raised a hand. Harry raised his elbow.

Something like surprise registered from the foreign presence in his head, quickly tamped down. Another query formed: _How did this start?_

Harry sat on a thin mattress in a sparsely furnished room, staring blankly at a wall. He fiddled absently with a pocket knife, rubbing his finger along the edge until he noticed with mild surprise it had split the skin and blood welled in the crevasse.

He winced, bracing for pain, but slowly opened his eyes when no discomfort was forthcoming save for a not-wholly-unpleasant sting. Instead, a peculiar feeling of calm filled him. It was as if his emotional pain was being drained away with the small rivulet of blood.

Experimentally, he placed the edge of the blade against his thumb and slowly pressed down. It bit into his skin, drawing out more crimson. He repositioned the blade, his lips curled in a parody of a smile.

The presence in his mind pulled back minutely, as if recognizing the deeply private nature of the memory and not wishing to further intrude upon that. A final question: _Where did you learn Sectumsempra?_

Panic shot through Harry like a bolt of lightning. He tried to fight against the onslaught of images the Potions Master was calling forth, desperate to protect the Half-Blood Prince's secrets, but resistance was, as the Muggles say, futile.

He stood at the back cupboard of the Potions classroom with Ron, both scrambling for the new text at the same time but Ron winning out. Harry glumly carried the tattered book back to his bench, the assignment was set, and everyone broke off to begin their brewing. Harry leafed through the textbook, skimming the scribbled annotations with a sense of curiosity he’d never before felt in Potions class. Cautiously, he followed their instructions. 

Slughorn beamed with pride when Harry produced a perfect Draught of Living Death, and this time Harry’s smile was genuine. He thought the Half-Blood Prince might be his new best friend.

Here, a foreign rush feeling that Harry recognized as Snape’s reaction to the memory flooded his mind: derision. 

Harry sat in a disused classroom, idly flipping through the Potions text. He noticed with interest a short note: _Sectumsempra—for enemies;_ nothing more. He raised his wand and leveled it at a curtain, casting the curse. It crumpled to the ground, severed neatly where the curse had touched it. 

Harry stared at it in shock for a minute. He raised his wand again.

_"Sectumsempra!"_

This time, a the threads of a tapestry on the opposite wall unravelled in a delicate line. Slowly, he lowered his wand to the inside of his arm.

_"Sectumsempra!"_

It was better than his Potions knife.

Harry felt the presence in his mind recede, and the next thing he knew he was back in the dungeon quarters of the Potions Master. Glittering black eyes met emerald, face inscrutable. A tense moment of silence passed.

"Potter—"

"NO!" Harry shouted, jumping to his feet. He clenched his hands into fists and pitched his voice low with barely restrained anger. " _No. You had no right_ —"

"Harry—" Snape tried again.

"NO RIGHT!" Harry turned on his heel and stalked off down the hall, slamming the door to the second room on the left.

——-

Severus released a sigh he didn't know he'd been holding. He slumped down in his chair heavily. _That went well._ But, he'd been dealing with teenage students for over a decade now—he knew it was best to just give the boy some space and time to cool down. He gritted his teeth in irritation all the same.

A moment later Severus stood and crossed the room to a writing desk in the corner. Unlocking a drawer, he retrieved a bottle of Firewhiskey and conjured a glass, pouring himself a bracing shot. It might be too early in the day to be drinking but Gods be damned, he didn't care. Severus grimaced as the amber liquid burned his throat; he relished the feeling anyway.

Sitting in the armchair once more, he allowed himself to analyze what he had seen in Potter's mind. It certainly wasn't what he had expected. An uninvited image surfaced in his mind: young Harry cowering in a closet, a man whom he assumed to be his uncle raising his hand to deliver a blow. 

This image was incongruous to Severus' firm belief that the Potter brat had been raised in the lap of luxury. Had he been wrong? He was rarely wrong, but doubt niggled at him and something fluttered uneasily in the pit of his stomach. He had no real evidence to support his belief that Potter Jr. had been spoiled growing up, born from his own disdain for Potter Sr. He had simply assumed... but of course, what happens when you assume?

Another image flashed into Severus’ head, one of a tall hook-nosed man stumbling toward _his_ younger self until he was backed into a corner, slurring his words though Severus could still make out the insults, raising an empty bottle high and—Severus firmly pushed the thought away.

Indeed, now that he considered the matter carefully, he realized that Harry had been increasingly withdrawn since the start of the term, rarely associating with anyone save Granger and the youngest Weasley boy, and even then he'd seemed somewhat distant—not the boisterous boy he'd been in years past. He seemed... haunted. And if Severus' foray into Harry's mind had revealed anything at all, it was that the boy felt a great weight of guilt for the deaths of Diggory boy and his dog-father.

Had the foolish Gryffindor confided in anyone about these experiences? More importantly, had anyone even tried to offer him counsel at all? What else might he be avoiding? 

Not for the first time, Severus cursed the Wizarding World’s antiquated attitudes toward psychology. 

——-

Harry reclined on the Professor's guest bed, one arm propping up his neck, the other at his side, balled into a fist. Anger coursed through his veins, bubbling just below his skin. His breaths came in time with the thudding of his heart.

Why did this have to happen to him? Everything was going fine until that detestable _git_ had found him—what had he even been _doing_ in that part of the school? It had been months and no one had ever come there, not once! And now he was stuck in the goddamned dungeons for Merlin knew how long, and bloody _Snape_ knew everything! Of course that absolute _wanker_ just had to use _Legilimens_ because... because... because he was an _arse_ , that's why! Couldn't he see that Harry didn't want to talk about it?

Harry exhaled in agitation and considered his options. He was stuck here, that much was clear. At least he didn't have to stay on the couch, though why Snape had a guest room was beyond him. Who could the solitary man possibly entertain? Other staff members had their own rooms, and Harry was certain the head of Slytherin House didn't have any family or, Merlin forbid, _friends_. He laughed to himself at the idea of anybody being friends with Snape.

Though, the accommodations were nicer than he ever would have imagined them being. No racks or manacles here either; the narrow but comfortable bed faced the door, with a lamp on a bedside table and a writing desk in the corner. Opposite the bed was a wardrobe. Of course, the main color was Slytherin green, but it lent a sort of earthy feel to the room despite its location in the bowels of the castle. Along the other wall was a charmed window which looked out over the lake. The sun had crept over the horizon, rising like a great golden eye, while its dancing rays were reflected tenfold in the undulating visage of the waters.

Approximately twenty minutes passed, then a curt rap at the door pulled Harry away from his inner reflection and examination of the room. A moment later it was followed by a deep voice: "Breakfast is in ten minutes."

"I'm not hungry!" Harry yelled back.

The only reply he got was, "Do not be late." A swish of fabric, then silence.

Harry huffed and fell back on the guest room bed. No way was he going out there to share a meal with that bastard, no matter how lenient he'd been with him last night. He'd still invaded his privacy in the worst way, and Harry wasn't ready to forgive that.

His stomach betrayed him, grumbling in protest. He pursed his lips in reply. He was hungry—so what? It's not like he hadn't gone without food before, back at the Dursleys’. Maybe if he skipped enough meals Snape would get the hint and leave him alone, and he could avoid any (more) awkward encounters with the man. Yes, this was a good plan. Resolutely, he closed his eyes, and waited.

Eleven minutes later (Harry tracked the hour on his watch), the door flung open and Snape stood silhouetted in the doorway, a supremely displeased expression on his sour face. 

"You are late."

"I said I'm not hungry," Harry retorted. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling and made no move to get up. 

In two swift strides, the Professor had crossed the distance between Harry and himself and grabbed him by the arm, roughly pulling him to a standing position. Harry flinched at the harsh contact, automatic habit courtesy of the Dursleys (Snape knew all about that now, the git). 

As if deferring to that knowledge, Snape suddenly released his grip on Harry's arm and instead placed his hand behind his shoulder, guiding him firmly out of the guest room, down the hallway, and over to the dining table.

The piles of Potions journals and stacks of assignments had been cleared away and the table was set for two. On the menu this morning was hot porridge and a plate of toast with jam. Cups of hot tea had already been poured and sat steaming expectantly by their plates. Harry inhaled; the scent of breakfast was inviting. His stomach rumbled again.

"Sit," Snape pointed to a chair. Harry obediently took his seat while Snape gracefully slid into his own. The Professor picked up a copy of the _Prophet_ and began scanning its articles as he sipped his tea.

Harry sat stiffly in his chair. He thought back to his plan not to eat anything and made no move to pick up his silverware. Instead, he stared steadfastly at his plate, seeing but not really seeing its contents. After a moment, that deep voice cut through the thoughts of his hunger strike.

"You needn't worry about it being poisoned; I requested that infernal elf-friend of yours prepare your meal personally," Snape sneered, not looking up from his paper.

At the realization the Dobby had gone to the trouble of making his meal specially, Harry felt a pang of guilt. He certainly didn’t want to _waste_ the food, and the greasy git was being more than generous in having him for meals at all. He didn’t have to do this. That… was good of him. 

_He's not the Dursleys,_ he reminded himself. Snape had tended to his wounds (passing no judgment), he'd offered him a room, he'd given him a decent breakfast... but he'd also invaded his mind and forced him to stay here against his will. Harry felt conflicted. Should he be grateful, or angry?

He replied to Snape's statement with a question of his own.

"Why am I eating breakfast here and not in the Great Hall? Won't my friends notice I'm, er, missing?"

Snape still didn't look up from his paper. "I've taken care of the details," was all he said.

"But won't they notice you're gone too?” he pressed. It was a bit of a stretch to assert that his friends kept as close an eye on Professor Snape’s habits as Harry did, but surely Hermione would make the connection. “I mean, you always take your meals in the Great Hall along with the other staff…"

Snape glanced at Harry over the top of his newspaper. "I have sent a message to Professor McGonagall explaining that you are to receive… specialized training. She will inform your housemates of your indefinite absence."

"’Specialized training,’ and you're the one to administer it," Harry groaned. "Merlin, you've told them I'm back in 'remedial Potions.'" He buried his face in his hands in embarrassment. After the debacle at the Ministry last year, Ron and Hermione had found out exactly what ‘remedial Potions’ was all about, but he knew Hermione wouldn't buy it a second time and would come snooping into his business… it was bad enough that his Professor knew his secret; he wasn't ready for his friends to find out too. He wasn't sure if he ever would be.

"No," Snape's clipped tones overrode Harry's line of thought. "I simply implied that you've been called away on important business related to the Order on Dumbledore's request and so will be attending courses by owl until further notice. As for myself, I frequently take my meals in my quarters on weekends."

"Oh." Harry raised his head out of his hands. His porridge was surely cool by now, but his stomach grumbled audibly. Snape quirked an eyebrow over the top of the paper.

"I suggest you eat."

"I'm not hung—"

"Spare me, Potter. I don't yet have the energy to deal with your Gryffindor mulishness." He sighed, then continued. "Just because I healed your wounds does _not_ mean you haven't lost blood. You need to _eat_ if you're going to recover your strength."

The Professor maintained a fixed gaze on Harry until, warily, he picked up his fork and began to eat.

——-

Severus regarded Potter from behind his newspaper. He couldn't care less about Quidditch stats or the latest victim of Rita Skeeter's vicious pen; instead, he used it as a front to surreptitiously observe his student. Potter cautiously yet eagerly devoured his breakfast. Severus would attribute his behavior to a combination of his nerves around his ‘scary professor’ plus a growing boy's appetite, but something seemed off about the way he seemed to covet each bite, as if it may be revoked at any moment.

In fact, now that he had a chance to study him, the boy looked positively thin. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and there was a fine tremor in his hands. Severus cursed himself again for not noticing any of this sooner.

He drained the last of his tea as his student finished his last few bites of food. When he was done, Potter looked in silent askance at Severus.

"I have instructed that elf friend of yours to bring your belongings from Gryffindor Tower; your trunk should be in the guest room now,” here, his voice grew stern, “When I retrieve you for dinner this evening, you will hand over that Potions text you’ve been using. I expect you to keep up with your studies during your… visit. "

"Yes sir."

"And Potter?"

"Sir?"

"Take a shower." At the boy's mildly offended expression, Severus clarified, "You will certainly feel better after last night's... incident." He noticed Potter fiddle with his sleeves then, still stiff with dried blood despite the cleaning charms Severus had cast the night before. 

Potter stood to leave, then paused. "Er, where can I find parchment and—?"

"Quills? Left drawer in the writing desk." He paused, then sneered, "Happy studies."

——-

Harry stepped into the single bathroom, looking around at the decor as he had done when he first entered Snape's quarters. It was modest, if not a bit old fashioned, done up in white-and-green tile—of course. A plush towel rested on a shelf above the toilet. He set it aside and quickly disrobed, turning the knob on the shower. He was pleasantly surprised to find that, like the tap in the prefects’ bathroom, the water was charmed to heat immediately to the perfect temperature. 

He stepped into the shower and began roughly scrubbing himself down. 

It had been a fast lesson to learn growing up at the Dursleys’ that Harry did not spend any more time than was absolutely necessary in the shower: he was, according to them, a waste of hot water. But if Aunt Petunia detested Harry, she detested filthiness even more. He often wouldn’t be admitted into her immaculate house after a long day spent doing yard work until he’d rinsed off with the garden hose, but on the rare occasions he was permitted a proper shower, he was to be in-and-out in under ten minutes, never afforded the luxury of allowing the warm water to soothe his aching back or bruised muscles. 

Now well into his sixth year at Hogwarts, he still found it difficult to relax and enjoy small indulgences like long showers. This, combined with his uncertainty regarding Snape’s shower policy and other house rules, had him out of the shower almost as soon as he’d stepped in. 

As he toweled off, he caught a glimpse of his arms. He took a moment to examine the scarred flesh closely, marveling at the lack of fresh scarring despite what he'd done to himself last night. Snape may be a complete wanker, but he sure did know his healing. Harry begrudgingly acknowledged that this skill came with the territory of being a Potions Master, not because Snape might be trying to oust Madam Pomfrey or something equally absurd. Except... this had been a spell, not a potion, and he'd seemed to know exactly which countercurse to use as well. 

As far as Harry knew, the Half-Blood Prince's annotations and spells weren't common knowledge, not even among those who studied the Dark Arts. So how had Snape of all people known what to do? He thought back to the Professor's urgent questioning regarding precisely which curse he'd used, and how he'd seemed pale and pained when Harry revealed it was _Sectumsempra_ —almost as if he'd actually recognized the curse.

There was also the minor issue of Snape wanting to confiscate the text from him. Why? Was it because he knew that the author of the annotations was helping Harry perform better in Potions class than five years of Snape’s own tutelage? Harry felt a rush of resentment for the Professor’s petty abuse of power. Why couldn’t he just let Harry keep the notes and continue doing well in Slughorn’s class? Where was the harm in that? 

Besides, all of the ‘extra material’ he learned from the Prince… 

Harry resolved not to let Snape take the Half-Blood Prince’s book from him. He had until dinner to figure out how to get around the Professor’s demand to hand it over. 

He finished drying off and slipped a fresh change of clothes on. He glanced up with the intention of attempting to tame his hair, but noted with some annoyance that Snape didn't have a mirror in the little bathroom. Instead, there was just a frame showing a dull landscape. He frowned. What kind of person doesn’t have a mirror in their bathroom? 

Putting it out of his mind, he stepped into the hall, glancing around to be sure that Snape wasn’t in sight. He quickly fetched some parchment, ink, and a quill from the writing desk in the corner of the living room and slipped quietly back to the guest room— _his_ room _—_ careful not to make noise or be seen lest the surly professor catch him and… dole out detention or something.

Harry wasn't quite sure what the man would do; everything about his behavior since he'd encountered him in the unused lavatory ran contrary to what he expected. He seemed tactful enough about the whole situation, even _understanding_ , but surely there had to be some ulterior motive? Slytherins didn't do ‘nice’—it wasn’t in their nature.

But Gryffindors didn't do cowardly, and that's exactly what Harry was being.

With a shake of his head, he set his materials on the small desk in the corner of the room and turned to retrieve his school books. As Snape had promised, Harry's trunk was sitting at the foot of the bed, all his belongings neatly folded and stacked within.

He withdrew his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ first, considering it as he sat back in the desk chair. How to avoid giving it up? 

He could hide it and claim that it hadn’t arrived with the rest of his stuff from Gryffindor… but no, the room wasn’t that large and Snape would immediately know he was lying. He could switch the covers… but with what? Snape would only need to open the book to realize that the content of the pages didn’t match the title on the spine. When no better ideas were immediately forthcoming, Harry tucked the book away and reached for his Transfiguration text instead. 

McGonagall had assigned two feet on Bellwyn's Laws as they applied to transubstantial transfiguration. _Boring._ He smiled faintly at the memory of Ron's face when she'd set that essay. Hermione, of course, had been delighted by the assignment and had begun jotting down notes in the margins of her parchment in preparation for her own essay. Wistfully, he wondered when he'd get to see them again, but he opened his book to the relevant chapter and began reading.

Two hours later he had one completed essay and an idea. 

It occured to Harry that Snape could’ve just retrieved the Potions text himself. The man had very little respect for boundaries, as evidenced by his quick use of Legilimency, so why hadn’t he picked it up as soon as the trunk was delivered to the dungeons? A Slytherin would see this lack of action exactly for what it was: a test, an exercise in trust. 

Harry was stuck with Snape indefinitely until he could be trusted not to cut himself, so it only made sense for Snape to see what amount of trust he could place in Harry. He probably had already anticipated Harry’s refusal to comply with the request. In a moment of strategic clarity that Ron would be proud of, Harry realized that how he responded to his test would determine how long he would be forced to stay here and how much freedom he’d be allowed during that time. 

He had to think like a Slytherin to retain the notes _and_ what measure of independence he could, given the circumstances.

Perhaps, he could use a Duplication Charm—Hermione used them sometimes to copy notes during group study sessions instead of writing them by hand over again, and she’d shown him a fairly simply one. 

He didn’t have nearly enough loose parchment to copy an entire textbook, but he did have a blank notebook in his trunk that should suffice. He retrieved it and set it on the desk, next to the Potions text. Then, he withdrew his wand and tapped first _Advanced Potions-Making_ , then the notebook. 

_“Duplicare Transcriptus.”_

The pages shimmered slightly as the contents of the textbook, including every annotation scribbled by the Prince, copied themselves into the pages of the notebook. Harry flipped through to make sure it had worked properly, then, with a satisfied smirk, tucked it away deep into his trunk. Now he could satisfy Snape’s request that he relinquish the textbook, without losing access to the notes he’d come to rely on this year; he’d out-Slytherin’d the Head of Slytherin. 

Quietly impressed with himself, he extracted his DADA notes, but almost immediately he shoved them back among his school things. Usually DADA was one of his favorite classes—he naturally excelled at the subject and it was arguably the most important information for him to learn, given the current political climate—but Harry's enthusiasm for the study of Defense wilted as soon as he remembered who exactly had set the assignment. He may not be able to escape the man's quarters, but he didn't want to think about him any more than he had to. He could leave _his_ classwork for later.

Thus the day passed in a quiet haze of homework, studying, and short stretch breaks. He wasn't paying attention to the time, but at one point a glass of water and a sandwich had appeared with the characteristic _pop!_ of house-elf magic. Some hours later, as Harry lazily reclined half-asleep on the bed having decided he was finished with schoolwork for the day, a sharp rap on the door stirred him.

"Dinner."

Retreating footsteps, then silence.

Harry didn't really want to move; he was too comfortable. Some part of him wanted to remain here on the bed, idly observing the shafts of sunlight as they crept across the floor and up the walls—but then he recalled the breakfast debacle, and how Snape had forcibly removed him from the room to sit him down at the table. He sighed. He would probably make less trouble for himself if he played along with the schedule Snape set for him… for now. And so he reluctantly picked himself up off the bed and shuffled down the hall, tatty copy of _Advanced Potions-Making_ in hand. 

Snape was already sat at the dining table, hands folded in his lap, watching Harry as he took his place. Satisfied, he turned to his own meal. 

Harry looked down at his plate, and it was then that he noticed the three vials of potion next to his setting. He scowled at them; did the Dungeon Bat really expect him to take those willingly? He resolutely ignored them while he continued eating his dinner.

"I would suggest, Potter, that you take those with your food. The taste rather leaves something to be desired."

Throwing a glare at the Professor, Harry uncorked the vials and drank them down in quick succession, grimacing at the taste. He covered the appalling flavor with another bite of shepherd's pie. The pair proceeded to eat their dinner in tense silence. When the last bite of pie had been eaten and the last drop of pumpkin juice drank, Harry moved to collect the dishes. It was natural for him to do so; after so many years as the Dursleys’ live-in housekeeper, such behaviors were automatic for him.

"Sir," he began once he'd gathered up the plates and forks and goblets, "where is your kitchen?"

Snape looked up sharply. "My what?"

"Your… kitchen? So I can do the washing-up," Harry clarified.

"Merlin, boy, put those dishes down! That's why Hogwarts employees house elves!"

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, feeling foolish. Of course he never worried about the dishes when he ate in the Great Hall, and he knew that the house elves _prepared_ and _served_ food to students and staff alike,but he'd just assumed that the cleanliness of a staff member's private quarters would be the responsibility of the staff member who resided there. He couldn't remember ever seeing a house elf in Hagrid's hut, anyway, and he knew the half-giant cooked all his own meals.

"Never mind," Snape dismissed, and true to his word, the dishes wavered out of existence in the next moment. 

Snape stayed seated at the table, quirking a brow expectantly. Harry huffed and retrieved the Half-Blood Prince’s Potions text from where he’d stashed it under his chair, holding it in sight of the Professor but still hesitant to relinquish the text itself, familiar now in its weight and feel. 

“I brought it. Like you asked.”

“Ah, yes. The Potions text you’ve been using to cheat all term.” Snape still made no move to retrieve the book from Harry. 

_“_ I haven’t been _cheating,”_ he defended himself hotly. 

“Then I suppose you happened to spontaneously develop an affinity for the subtle science of Potions just in time for a new Potions Master to take over my old post. Naturally, had Slughorn not rejoined the faculty, you would be impressing _me_ with your newfound mastery of the art.” He paused, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a smug expression. “Or not, because with your OWL score, I would never have let you into NEWT potions to begin with.”

“The Prince helps me!” Harry protested. 

Snape stared at him, blank as stone. “The Prince.”

“Yeah. It’s… here.” Harry flipped open the cover of the book and pointed to the note scrawled inside. “ _This book is property of the Half-Blood Prince.”_

“Fascinating. And hasn’t young Miss Weasley told you what kinds of things can happen when you take strange advice from old books?”

“It’s not like that!” he objected. “Ginny was possessed by Vol—” a severe look from Snape, “—Tom Riddle! That was entirely Dark magic. But the Prince isn’t like Riddle at all.”

“You seem to have very clear ideas about who this _Prince_ of yours is and who he isn’t.”

“Well, it’s just that he’s got, um, a personality, you know? You can tell by his notes. He’s… funny. And brilliant,” Harry explained. 

“Funny. Brilliant,” Snape repeated in a flat tone. 

“Look, I know this book is ancient and this Prince guy probably graduated Hogwarts decades ago. I’m willing to bet he’s off doing something incredible with his life—”

“I’m willing to bet he’s not.”

“—but I honestly don’t see what’s wrong with taking his advice! I mean, I don’t know any Dark lines with the name of Prince, so…” 

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “And how do you know Prince is a name and not a title of royalty?”

“I dunno. Just feels like a name,” Harry shrugged. “Anyway, there aren’t any prominent Death Eaters named Prince, that I know of…”

“Privy to the Dark Lord’s inner circle, are you, Potter?” 

He continued, ignoring the comment. “—And how is using this book any different than looking up a book in the library?”

The Professor pursed his lips for a moment before speaking again. “Using this text as reference is not equivalent to using a library text because the Half-Blood Prince’s annotations are not made accessible to every student equally.”

“Oh. But, I use Hermione’s notes sometimes. She doesn’t let everyone look at them.”

“Those notes are derived from source material available to every student. Therefore, what you are doing constitutes cheating.”

“I—” Harry began, but stopped. He didn’t have a good argument to that. 

“Furthermore, what you’ve been doing is _extremely dangerous_ ,” Snape reiterated.

“How so? I haven’t hurt anyone!”

“Foolish boy!” Snape hissed. He finally stood and leaned across the table to catch Harry by the wrist, enforcing his point, but did not push back the sleeve. He didn’t need to—Harry paled. “And what of the rest of the spells that your little friend has written, hm? Do you think they’re all as friendly as _Sectumsempra?”_

“I—I haven’t…”

“Do you think all of the alterations to those recipes are so benign? Have you considered that one little deviation may turn a Pepper-Up into a poison?” Snape pressed on. 

“No, I didn’t think…” 

“Precisely! You didn’t _think_ , period. And how then would you _know_ the toxicity of your new brew, hm? Would you test it on some unsuspecting first-year, or do you blindly _trust_ that the _Prince_ would never lead you astray?”

Indignation boiled over in Harry, and he fired back. “The Prince has done a better job teaching me Potions this term than your have in five bloody years!”

“Oh, indeed?” To Harry’s dismay, Snape seemed _amused_. “And tell me, Potter, would you suggest the Headmaster track down this _Prince_ and hire him on staff as Potions Master?”

“Yeah, actually, I would! …I know what your problem is.” 

“And what would that be?”

“You’re _jealous_.” 

“Jealous.”

“Yeah. You’re _jealous_ because the Half-Blood Prince is better at Potions than you ever will be!” Harry crossed his arms in triumph, but his smug grin was rapidly replaced with disbelief when Snape did not have the expected reaction. 

Snape did not yell. He did not threaten, or take House points. He did not assign detention or lines or essays. He did not make a scathing remark, nor did he flee the room in a fit of rage. 

Instead, his features twisted into a somewhat uncomfortable-looking expression. After a moment, Harry recognized it as an attempt to suppress laughter. Not the mirthless barks of laughter that sometimes accompanied a dry, cynical observation, but _real_ laughter, the kind that bubbles up from deep in your belly, that makes your lungs burn. 

Of course, Snape did not laugh. He was successful in his ruthless suppression of emotion save for the escape of a lone chuckle and an upward quirk of the lips. Instead, he swiftly reset his features to their usual blankness and snatched the textbook out of Harry’s yielding hands. 

"For the remainder of the evening, I will be brewing in my private lab in the hopes that if I practice enough, my Potions expertise may one day bear comparison with that of your Half-Blood Prince,” this last part was heavily sarcastic, and Harry clenched his jaw to avoid saying something that would get himself into more trouble. “Do not disturb me unless it is an emergency. You may continue to work on your assignments or, if you tire of those, feel free to choose a book from my library." He turned to leave, then stopped and glanced back in mock concern. "I do hope that Miss Granger has introduced you to the concept of reading?"

Clearly Snape thought himself amusing, but Harry wasn't inclined to agree. All he managed was a strained, "Yes, Professor." The Professor moved off and disappeared through a doorway off the main sitting area—presumably, his lab—leaving Harry alone in the main chambers.

He stood in the center of the room for a moment as he worked out what he wanted to do. He'd spent all day shut away in ‘his’ room working on schoolwork, so he didn't want to do any more of that. There was a reason he wasn't in Ravenclaw, after all. That left reading. Not the most exciting activity, for sure, but it beat laying on the bed staring at the ceiling. And so he wandered over to one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that covered the walls. 

Books of all shapes and sizes were crammed onto the shelves—some thin, some thick, some large enough to hide his lap completely, some so small they could fit in his pocket, some paperback, some leather-bound, some ancient, some quite new. He randomly selected one. It was a medium-sized paperback, clearly some Muggle thriller. The author's name seemed distantly familiar, but he couldn't recall where he'd heard it; it didn’t look like the sort of novel Aunt Petunia would approve of. Nonetheless, it intrigued him, and so he settled on the couch and cracked open the book.

——-

Severus shut the door to his lab with a quiet _snick_. He released a breath, feeling much more relaxed than he had all day, now that he was sealed away alone in his Potions lab. His quarters were his sanctuary: from dunderheaded students, from meddling old Headmasters, from well-intentioned but annoying coworkers, from sadistic Death Eaters and depraved Dark Lords. His private quarters were where he could let his mask slip a little. 

But ever since last night Severus had been on edge, even in his own chambers, and he had one Harry Potter to thank for that. 

How _dare_ he be made uncomfortable _in his own home?_

Severus rarely entertained company, and when he did they never stayed for more than a couple of hours. His most frequent guest was actually Minerva. Some afternoons they'd share gossip over a cup of tea, about staff and students alike; nothing was off-limits for them. These afternoons were filled with light-hearted inter-House ribbing, discussions of the Weasley twins' latest pranks, and speculation on what idiocy the Ministry or the _Prophet_ would get up to next. 

The Head of Slytherin House found it supremely ironic that it was the Head of Gryffindor House who was the closest thing he had to a... friend.

Pomona Sprout was the next most frequent visitor. Some might find it surprising that a Slytherin should be friendly with a Hufflepuff, but Sprout was an expert in her field much the same way that Severus was an expert in his, and Herbology as a discipline was very closely related to Potions. If nothing else, they shared a bond over their interest in research, experimentation, and academia. Sprout was happy to bring by botanicals that he used as ingredients in his potions—it was much cheaper than procuring every herb and root from apothecaries. She also grew experimental botanicals in her greenhouses at his request. He had a fair amount of knowledge about Herbology himself, and he knew that sometimes tweaking the pH of the soil or the diet of the plant had drastic effects on the properties of the potion brewed from it. Sprout was always excited to share her passion for Herbology with someone, anyone, even the Dungeon Bat of Slytherin, and so sometimes she suggested her own botanical modifications and speculated on how they might affect various potions. 

It was a well-kept secret, but Severus Snape and Pomona Sprout had collaborated on a few academic papers that had been published in reputable Potions and Herbology journals. 

On rare occasions, Poppy would stop by with a stock request or to deliver unpublished Potions research from St. Mungo's, but more often than not she sent papers and orders to him by owl. She only ever spent a significant amount of time in his quarters if she was tending to some injury he'd sustained from a Death Eater meeting or some mission gone wrong and he was refusing to be seen in the infirmary—which, to be honest, was always. 

Dumbledore never came around his quarters, preferring to communicate with Severus in his own office, summoning him via patronus.

Thus, he could usually feel secure in the knowledge that when he needed to retreat, he could count on his quarters at Hogwarts to serve as his sanctuary of solitude. But now the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Make-His-Life-Difficult was residing in his guest room and Severus had to maintain his persona constantly lest the boy find out he had _feelings_ … well, feelings beyond ‘scorn’ and ‘rage.’ 

He'd already done enough damage in healing Potter's self-inflicted wounds without his usual sarcasm and vitriol. If anything, he'd been perfectly neutral about the entire ordeal, but he still hoped that Potter wouldn't get it into his thick head that Severus was anything resembling ‘soft.’ 

As Severus set up the glassware and the equipment to start a potion, he realized that he really couldn't in good conscience have treated Harry with his usual nasty attitude anyway, not when it came to something like _this_ , because he understood more than anyone in the castle what it was like to feel so desperate, so hopeless, so worthless and unloved and angry and judged and unfairly treated, that you took to seeking out physical pain to replace the pain nestled in your chest. He knew how addictive that sensation could be, especially when the blade was your only friend. He _knew_. 

In some twisted way, Severus saw it as his duty to tend to students struggling with the same problem (even Potter), to offer them the help that no one had offered him, in the hopes that they wouldn't stray so far down that path that there was no going back. Severus himself couldn't be saved, he was aware of that and he'd made his peace with it, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try to save his students.

He'd seen it with some frequency in his tenure as Head of House—Slytherins were more prone to self-injury than the other Houses, with Ravenclaws being next, then the occasional Gryffindor, but it was practically unheard of in Hufflepuff. He always made sure never to yell or be angry with a student, regardless of House. Generally, his protocol was to treat the immediate emergency, then turn the case over to the appropriate Head. 

Flitwick was surprisingly good at handling the Ravenclaws for someone with no personal experience; he was well read in the statistics, the studies, the motives, and treatments, and so was more than competent caring for cutters. For Ravenclaws, it tended to be brought on by stress, and they were good about seeking help when they felt it had come to that point. Thus, their cases were usually resolved in the short-term. 

The one time Severus could remember a case in Hufflepuff, Sprout had been very compassionate and understanding and the boy's housemates had rallied around him, taking an active role in supporting him through his recovery. It was all very _touching_. 

Slytherins weren't like that. They tended to be very secretive about their behavior. Of course, Severus knew what to look for and so such behavior was blatantly obvious to him, but he never let on why it was that he could catch them so easily (like shooting fish in a barrel, the Muggle saying goes). This led to wild speculation among his Snakes as to how exactly their Head seemed to know _everything,_ and he did nothing to quell the rumors. He simply invited the student in question to come to him next time, to talk with him before acting. He administered potions as necessary and followed up with them, performing random checks to make sure they hadn't hurt themselves again (never displaying anger if they did as he understood the concept of relapse all too well), but generally respecting their privacy—and pride—by watching from the shadows. With time, most of his cases were resolved. 

Then there were the Gryffindors. They were easily the most self-destructive lot of the students in Severus’ opinion, though this usually manifested in unnecessary risk-taking and irresponsible behavior, not overt self-harm. He had a sneaking suspicion that the almost fanatical culture of Bravery and Honor in Gryffindor stigmatized self-harm more so than in other Houses, to the point where struggling students went to great lengths to hide it simply to avoid the shame. It didn’t help that Minerva wasn’t the most approachable of the Heads when it came to this. She was a good and noble woman, but she took the tenants of Gryffindor House very seriously and didn’t really understand how to handle such cases with the appropriate delicacy, or what would even drive a student to that point. 

But Severus _knew_.

Almost unconsciously, he rubbed at his arms, trailing his fingers over the fabric that hid the evidence of the consequences of last night. The slight sting his fingertips elicited was a comfort.

He shook his head and tried to focus on the task at hand. Brewing. This potion was to be a modified Dreamless Sleep—if all went according to plan, and theory suggested it should, then in a few hours Severus would have a potion that induced restful and stress-free REM sleep instead of suppressing the REM cycle entirely, as the current formulation of Dreamless Sleep did. While for someone suffering nightmares the idea of repressing any form of dreaming was understandably appealing, research from some St. Mungo's healers, in conjunction with research proposed by Muggle neuroscientists, suggested that dreaming during the REM cycle was an important part of maintaining a healthy brain. They proposed that levels of stress hormone build up over the course of the day and are 'reset' during REM sleep. Lack of adequate REM sleep results in heightened fear response due to the elevated levels of the stress hormone, as well as increased risk of depression and inability to concentrate or assimilate new information.

If Severus could find a way to preserve the dream function within the sleep cycle while simultaneously blocking nightmares specifically, then he knew he'd have an important breakthrough on his hands.

_Which would be infinitely better than all the blood I have on my ha—Stop._

Merlin knew that with the return of the Dark Lord, the rise of Death Eater activity, and the stresses of wartime in general, demand for Dreamless Sleep was high. At least once a week Poppy was requesting he brew more to replenish her stores in the infirmary, and it wasn't unusual for a bold student to approach him directly during his office hours for a vial. 

However, he knew the limitations of the current standard formula—grogginess, inattentiveness, even addiction among them—and he also knew that if students, staff, Order members, Aurors, were to have any hope of surviving the war, they could not afford _brain fog_. It could mean the difference between survival and death, not just for the combatant, but for those they were fighting for as well. 

But if he could eliminate the problems caused by suppressing REM sleep and allow for dreaming that didn’t cause distress, then perhaps he could contribute something good to the war. To the world. 

Severus deftly diced a root as he waited for the base in his cauldron to come to the proper temperature, studiously ignoring the way the candlelight glinted off the sharp edge of the Potions knife. He didn't need that now anyway; he was brewing. Few things soothed him like the process of brewing. 

After a round of the Marauder's bullying, after a round of his father's fists, after a round of torture at the wrong end of a Death Eater's wand, Severus always knew he could calm his nerves by whipping up a potion and burying himself in theory and research. 

As he carefully measured and added ingredients, stirring and straining and letting sit and simmer, he felt the stress recede. The tension melted from his shoulders, his posture relaxed, and his breaths came deep and easy. Now that he wasn't wound tight as a spring, he was able to let his mind objectively analyze the events of the last twenty-four hours.

The first thing that concerned him was those _awful_ Muggle relatives of Potter’s; the way they seemed to treat the Savior of the Wizarding World was very concerning, to say the least. Severus had been observing Harry's behavior closely ever since he saw the hint of an abusive past in his mind. It was written in the way he'd been terrified when he'd stained the couch, as if he'd completely forgotten that magic existed, or that the resident was a Potions Master who was very well acquainted with cleaning solutions and the like. It was written in the way that he coveted each bite of food, as if he didn't know when his next meal would be—and, given what he knew of Petunia’s boundless hatred for magical folk, it was plausible that at 4 Privet Drive, this was the case. 

Lily had pointed out similar behavior in Severus when they were children, but it wasn't for the same reasons. It was poverty, plain and simple. After Tobias was laid off and squandered what little money Mother brought in working odd jobs on drink, sometimes there just wasn't enough to feed everyone for the week. When Lily found out, suddenly the Evans would always ‘accidentally’ buy more groceries than they could reasonably keep, and would Severus be so kind as to take some of them off their hands? (It was never charity, because they knew Severus was too proud to accept charity.) Tobias may have been a right bastard, but he never starved him on purpose, at least.

But Severus was very familiar with physical abuse, and apparently so was Harry, if the image of that lout of an uncle raising his hand to strike him was anything to go by. He wondered if it had been a one-time deal, that perhaps the brat had just done something exceptionally vexing and the uncle had simply lost his temper… but something told him that wasn't the case. Other little behaviors offered clues that suggested it was just one in a long string of similar incidents, an established pattern. The fact that the boy appeared to live in a _cupboard_ , for instance. The fact that the boy always seemed underfed and dressed in shabby secondhand clothes despite the evidence that the Dursleys were very well-off; clearly, they could afford food and decent clothing for themselves but were unwilling to provide for their nephew. This pointed to gross neglect, if nothing else. 

But he'd seen the way he flinched at sudden movements and raised voices (he was a spy, _of course_ he'd seen). What he'd taken for a natural skittishness now indicated something much darker. He resolved to delve deeper.

Another thing Severus found curious was the way Potter had automatically assumed the role of house-elf at dinner. The boy was a 6th year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, for Merlin's sake. Surely he knew about _magic_? Surely he was aware of the house-elves employed in the kitchens? What had possessed him to think that he needed to do the washing-up by hand? Severus sighed in exasperation as he poured the contents of his cauldron into a flask. He attached a tube running at a negative slope to another flask, casting a cooling charm around the length of the tube, and set a flame under the first flask to evaporate and condense a particularly volatile component of the potion. 

Thinking about it, the child had displayed a propensity for cleaning before. No one scrubbed cauldrons Muggle-style in his detentions with less complaint and more efficiency than Harry Potter. Though Severus would never admit it, a couple of the more uncalled for detentions he'd assigned to Potter were merely because he wanted some _good and clean_ cauldrons and hadn’t felt inclined to do it himself. Sure, there were charms that would take care of the mess, but they weren't as effective as good old-fashioned elbow grease. This devotion to order and cleanliness, however, didn't seem to extend to the boy's personal life. Often his hair was untamed and his uniform was a mess—all wrinkled robes and crooked ties. His parchments tended to be crunched up in his bag and hastily smoothed out when used. His quills were constantly bent, and he sometimes had to bum a fresh nib off of Granger. How could he have such a stringent sense of cleanliness as it applied to others' spaces, but almost no sense of organization concerning his own presentation? It was as if a strong duty of _service_ had been instilled in him, a compulsion to tend to others' problems without ever sparing a thought to his own. Severus found this thought disturbing.

He had always painted the Gryffindor Golden Boy as arrogant, lazy, and entitled… but he was a man of logic and reason, and now he could no longer deny the evidence that was staring him in the face. Evidence that said he had been very, very wrong all these years. Was it arrogance, or was it merely impulsivity and misguided loyalty? Was it laziness, or was there a more sinister explanation for his inattentiveness in his studies? Was the boy entitled, or was he viewing him through the lens of other wizards' expectations?

He growled in irritation as he realized he'd lost focus and neglected his potion. Quickly, he killed the flame and removed the flask containing distillate from underneath the condenser. It wouldn't do to let the potion reach too high of a temperature—then, he'd surely overshoot the boiling point and end up with impurities in his product! Eying the pale blue liquid in the flask critically, Severus gave it a couple of swirls and set it aside under a hood. It would need some time to cool before it would be ready for the next step, but this wasn't a critical juncture and so that could wait until tomorrow. Still dwelling on the events of the day, he set about clearing away the lab bench. 

——-

After an hour or two, Harry snapped the thriller novel closed. It was certainly interesting, but he was exhausted. It wasn’t terribly late—10 pm at the latest—but he had been studying hard all day and he suspected that the potions Snape gave him had a sedating effect.

The Professor still hadn't emerged from his lab, and Harry didn't think he would any time soon. This didn't bother him—it's not as if he needed permission to go to bed, or a _goodnight kiss_. Not from him. _Especially_ not from him. At this thought, Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust. Actually, it was probably better that he didn't see Snape anytime soon; he was still angry at him for the stunt with the Legilimency, and for keeping him here at all, and for being a git in general.

Replacing the book on the bookshelf, Harry returned to the room Snape had given him. He shut the door firmly and went through the motions of preparing for bed then clicked the switch on the little lamp beside the bed and plunged the room into darkness. Cautiously, he slipped underneath the blankets on the bed and, once he was sure the sheets weren't hexed to strangle him or something, he allowed himself to relax. The bed was very comfortable. More so than that old couch, and exceedingly more than the thin, lumpy mattress he slept on at Privet Drive. Still, he'd much rather be back in his four-poster in Gryffindor. The unfamiliarity of this place set his nerves on edge. 

_Nothing to do for it now, though._ Harry reluctantly closed his eyes and fell into a troubled sleep.

Sometime later, he woke with a start. His breaths were coming in great gasps and he felt cold and clammy. He desperately kicked off the sheets which ensnared his legs. Sweat trickled down his back, tickling his spine like a line of insects, and he tore off his pajama top as well. Feeling less confined now, he pulled himself into an upright position and planted his bare feet on the stone floor.

Wearily, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He didn't feel as if he'd slept at all—wasn't it just a moment ago that he'd pulled the blankets over himself and shut off the lamp? But he must have, because he remembered snippets of dreams (nightmares), flitting though his mind like Dementors.

_Green eyes. Green flash._

_A woman's scream. A death-cry._

_Laughter. Shouting._

_Pain. Pain. Pain!_

_Black eyes, watching._

What did it mean? Did it even matter anymore? 

The only light in the room filtered in from the charmed window, and Harry took a moment to observe the silvery shimmer of moonlight playing across the surface of the lake. The moon itself hung low in the sky. Waxing Gibbous, he noted idly. Its phase would be full in about a week. He wondered how Remus was faring.

That thought brought an image of Sirius to his mind, and Harry suddenly felt a coldness spreading through him that had nothing to do with his nightmare. He knew Sirius and Remus were close—perhaps even closer than most realized—and he couldn't think of one without thinking of the other. Now Remus was all alone, robbed of the last person on this earth who understood him. Best friend? Brother? Lover? Either way, Sirius had loved Remus dearly and unconditionally. He'd become an illegal Animagus to assist him during his transformation, even, and if that wasn't loyalty Harry didn't know what was. He briefly wished someone would support _him_ so completely, but he quickly banished that thought. He didn't deserve it.

Remus had assured Harry that he didn't blame him for Sirius' death. But also hadn't been around much lately. What was he doing? There were some rumors that he was running missions for the Order, but couldn't he have spared a moment to write? Didn't he know that Harry had lost Sirius too, that he'd lost the only real family he had left?

Harry's breathing had returned to normal and he let out a breath in a deep sigh, resting his forehead on his fists. His throat was tight and he felt tears sting the corners of his eyes, but they didn't fall. They never did. He wasn't sure if he even _could_ cry anymore. It had been so long. 

Instead, he felt that irrepressible urge to replace his emotional pain with physical pain. It was merely a form of Transfiguration—changing one thing into another—though he doubted McGonagall would appreciate the comparison. His skin itched something awful, and he knew he had to do something soon. But what could he use? Snape had confiscated his wand in anticipation of this situation exactly, and he didn't have a tool like a knife… 

…A Potions knife? Harry didn't have one, but Snape did. The man was a _Potions Master_ for Merlin's sake! With renewed energy, Harry stood and moved toward the door. It was then that his brain caught up with his body.

 _Harry James Potter, are you daft?_

It's not like he'd wander into the sitting room and find a knife carelessly set on the coffee table, primed for the taking. This was _Snape_. If he knew anything about the spy, it was that he'd have anticipated Harry's every move and taken every precaution to counteract him, probably all before breakfast. Potions knives would be hidden away behind three layers of locks and three more wards. If he started rummaging around the man's quarters, he'd certainly be alerted, and Harry's game of _Where's Wally_ would come to an abrupt and unpleasant end. Maybe Snape didn't secret away the knives in his lab, though, because that would be impractical.

That option merited no consideration because it wasn't an option at all. He couldn’t get into the lab, and he’d get hexed to within an inch of his life if he tried break the wards. Even if he managed to get past them, the potential punishment for getting caught snooping… well, Harry may be desperate, but he _wasn't_ suicidal.

He sat back on his bed, worrying his lip. What to do, what to do? 

In the corner of the room, a ray of moonlight reflected off the (sharp!) metal point of a quill nib. He crossed the room slowly and, as if in a trance, held the quill aloft as he carefully examined it. 

Could this work?

He pressed the tip to his arm experimentally, gradually increasing the pressure until he felt the bite of metal piercing flesh. A moment later, a bead of dark liquid welled at the site, quivered for an instant, then streaked down the side of his arm. Oh, _yes_. This was _good_.

Again. And again. And again. Harry told himself that he deserved this, for leaving Remus all alone. He hadn't just ruined his own life when he'd gotten Sirius killed, he'd taken Remus' only remaining friend. And Remus was too polite to tell him but he knew, he _knew_ , that Remus blamed him for it. Why shouldn't he? It was his fault, after all, and no amount of platitudes could convince him otherwise.

Harry stared numbly at his arms, criss-crossed with little jagged lines. Not as smooth as a knife or precise as _Sectumsempra_ , but it got the job done. Suddenly feeling bone-weary, he wiped the nib clean on the fabric of his pajamas and crawled back into bed. This time, he slept soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been very tired and very busy of late, so while I aim for the next chapter in two weeks' time (it is already written, but will undergo some rigorous editing), it may be a bit longer. A final note: I do not have a beta, so I do hope that what I've posted so far is acceptably error-free and coherent. 
> 
> Thank you for choosing to stick with my fic through the second chapter. I thrive on comments and reviews, so I would be ever so grateful if you took a moment to leave me some short (or long) feedback.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, by popular request I have finally uploaded the next chapter. My apologies for the nearly month long wait, my life became very hectic recently--first there was the holidays, then I was sick for a week and a half with a nasty cold, then uni started up just this week, so I've had little time to write. I hope I do not disappoint you when you find this chapter is not terribly long nor exciting. 
> 
> The only CW for this chapter is mentions of past self-harm, nothing graphic or 'live'.

When Harry woke for a second time, it was morning. The dawn sunbeams washed the room in pale light. He sat up and stretched. He felt much lighter now than he had last night, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at the memory of what he'd done. 

He felt a surge of self-assuredness: Snape wouldn't find out, Snape would never know, and Harry was confident he could fake his way out of the dungeons and back to Gryffindor tower and continue on as he always had and no one could make him stop, no one could take this away from him. Because Snape had no real power over him, especially outside of the dungeons. 

All he needed to do was _get_ out.

He dressed and headed out to the main room for breakfast. If he was going to convince Snape that he was fine, then he'd best commit to acting the part and come willingly for meals. It wouldn't do to give the Head Slytherin any cause for suspicion; Slytherins were already suspicious enough by nature.

The Professor was already seated at the table, looking expectantly at Harry over a copy of the _Prophet_. Once Harry took his seat and started in on his hot cereal, Snape went back to perusing the paper with nary an acknowledgment of his charge. While his attention was diverted, Harry observed him. He seemed slightly less tense than he had yesterday, which Harry took to be a good sign. Maybe that would make it easier to get in his good graces.

The pair continued to eat in silence, Snape distractedly raising his spoon or his coffee mug every so often and Harry tucking into his breakfast with a zeal he didn't truly feel. Once he'd finished, he picked up the potion that had been set out by his bowl and made sure Snape was watching as he downed it, giving him a pointed look.

Only then did he notice that Snape’s expression was pinched and sour, as if he'd bitten into a lemon… but then again, when wasn’t it? 

Harry waited a moment, but when it seemed like the older wizard wasn't going to say anything, he made to leave. Before he could get far though, his deep voice cut through the air.

"You will be doing a Potions practical with me today."

Harry froze. "What."

"I will not repeat myself."

"But—you're not even my professor anymore!" Harry protested.

"I suppose then I shall have the Headmaster remove you from the roster for Defense—"

"Potions! Slughorn—"

"Is not here. _I am_. You are still intending to pursue your foolhardy desire to become an Auror, are you not, Mr. Potter?"

_"Yes!"_

"Then I will not stand by and let your education atrophy just because you are not attending classes at the moment. You do recall that you need a NEWT in Potions to qualify for the Auror program?"

"Yes sir," Harry conceded sullenly. "Okay. Sure. When do we, uh, do that?"

"Now." Snape rose fluidly and, in a few quick strides, disappeared through an arched doorway just off the main sitting area. Harry reluctantly followed.

The lab beyond was spacious, accommodating two workbenches and hosting several shelves, cabinets, drawers, counters, and even a fume hood along the walls. Harry waited nervously near the door, never having felt at ease in the classroom lab but now particularly uncomfortable at the thought of being in the Potions Master's master Potions lab. 

He glanced around the room. In one corner stood a shelving unit that housed cauldrons of all sizes and make. Some, near the top, were tiny and could fit in a first-year's hand; others, tucked away on the bottom shelf, Harry thought he might be able to sit inside himself. Strange glassware was stored on another shelf, all misshapen flasks and tubes bent at odd angles, and under the fume hood sat a flask containing a glowing misty-blue liquid. Instinctively, he knew it was dangerous in its current state.

Presently, Snape thumped a book on the nearer lab bench. Harry hurried over to see what hell-brew he was expected to produce for him today. With a tap of his wand, the text flew open and riffled through the chapters before settling on a page. 

"Supplies are in that cabinet. Any equipment you may need is on that shelf. Cauldrons are stored over there. You have one hour. Begin."

Harry glanced at the text, then shot an offended scowl at the Professor. “Draught of Peace! This is a fifth-year potion! You—this really is _remedial Potions_ , isn’t it?”

“Watch your tone, Potter,” Snape rebuked him sharply, “Perhaps it has escaped your notice year after year as you are only barely more sentient than the ingredients you work with, but potions from previous classes are commonly re-assigned as review.” His thin lips curled in a nasty smile. “And if I recall correctly, you _do_ need to review this particular brew.”

“You’re the one who gave me a zero on this last year!”

“Contemplate why that might be, Potter. One hour. Begin.”

When it became clear that Snape was going to offer no more ‘encouragement,’ Harry moved to collect his equipment and ingredients: a midsize cauldron, a jar of powdered moonstone, another of powdered unicorn horn, porcupine quills, and syrup of hellebore—the ingredient that gave him trouble last time. He brought all this back to the lab bench and set to work.

A while later, he had found a rhythm in his brewing and was almost able to forget the presence of the silent man lurking behind him like an overgrown bat. Harry referenced the text instructions for what felt like the twentieth time in as many minutes. At this stage, the potion should be changing from pink to red as he stirred, but it was really more of a rust color.

When the potion was as close to red as Harry figured it would ever be, he stepped back blew out a breath in agitation, wishing in earnest that he had the Prince’s notes to guide him. _Allow to simmer until it turns purple… bugger, that’s maroon._ He frowned slightly, but pushed on, stirring, adding ingredients, letting simmer… until finally, he’d lowered the heat as per the final step and carefully added the seven drops of syrup of hellebore. The chalky white potion faded to a milky, pale blue, and light grey steam wafted upward. 

“Twelve minutes to spare. Decant the brew and hand it over for inspection.”

Wordlessly, Harry did as instructed and passed the vial to Snape, who barely glanced at it before pronouncing his judgement.

“Barely acceptable, Potter.”

“I remembered the syrup of hellebore this time! I followed the instructions! You can’t fail me again!”

“Silence. I said it was _acceptable_ , and that is the grade you shall receive for this assignment. However,” the Professor continued as he strolled to the sink and dumped the contents of the vial down the drain, “it is still not fit for consumption. Had you followed the procedure exactly, your product would have been a bright turquoise and emitted a _silver_ vapor.”

Harry watched in dismay as the past hour’s hard work was washed away into the plumbing, staring in helpless frustration at his workstation as, with a sharp flick of his wand, Snape vanished the remaining potion from the cauldron and banished the dirtied equipment to the washing station. Indignation rose in him like a flame, threatening to burn away his previous good mood, but with effort, he forced it away. He had to keep his cool, give no cause for suspicion. 

“You will write an essay detailing how one can judge the variance in efficacy and potency of Draught of Peace by the physical characteristics of a sample alone. Due Friday.”

Then, with a curt command, “Come,” Snape signalled the end of the Potions practical and dismissed Harry from the laboratory. He sealed the entrance behind Harry as he exited and indicated instead the seating area in the living room. Warily, Harry obliged, settling uneasily on the same couch he’d slept on his first night here… had that really only been two nights ago? 

“A serious conversation is long overdue,” Snape began soberly. Harry nodded mutely; ever since he’d been discovered in the abandoned lavatory, he knew this was coming. He realized that Snape had been gracious to give him a day or so to get settled before starting in on him. “I need to outline some rules that are to be followed,” he continued. 

“What sort of… rules?” his voice wavered only slightly in apprehension, but in some ways he was relieved; it was difficult staying in a place without clearly defined expectations or boundaries. He’d tried to play it safe and assume Dursley-style rules to avoid further annoying the temperamental Professor, but even that had backfired when he’d tried to take the dishes last night, and now he was truly at a loss. 

“Dunderhead though you may be, I do not think it necessary to have to spell this out, but for the sake of clarity I will anyway: do not, under any circumstances, harm yourself. That is the cardinal rule.”

“Yes sir,” Harry acknowledged, keeping his focus on his hands and very deliberately not meeting the Legilimens’ eyes lest he see that Harry had already broken that rule. Oh Merlin, could he really keep this act up? He took a breath—held it for a moment—then exhaled the critical question in a rush of words before he could lose his nerve, “…and what would be my punishment if I did?”

Then he waited, simultaneously fearful of the answer and grateful for the opportunity to dispel the uncertainty. He’d always found it much easier to face the enemy he knew than the enemy he didn’t. 

"Elaborate," Snape requested, tone flat.

"My punishment!" Harry erupted in annoyance. "Are you going to lock me in a… supply closet? Withhold food? Hex me? _Curse_ me?" An involuntary shudder rippled down his spine at the prospect, but he raised his chin and held the defiant glare aimed at the dark man sitting across from him all the same. 

Snape looked affronted. "How dare you insult me so? Do you really think so lowly of me that you believe I'd _ever_ —!"

"Well, you've got me in a box, _Professor_. We're not in class anymore. You can do whatever you want to me down here in the dungeons, and no one would be the wiser. You sure know your Dark Arts. I'm sure you can invent all kinds of nasty—"

"That is _unconscionable_. Cease these accusations at once!” Snape emphasized his displeasure with the smack of his hand on the wood of the coffee table between them, causing Harry to flinch. Snape pulled back, took a moment to regain his composure, and continued, the controlled fury evident in his tight tone. “I am a professor at the finest institution of magic in all of Britain. You may not agree with my classroom demeanor, but I do hold myself to strict standards of professionalism. To imply… to imply that any staff member at Hogwarts would harm a student is absurd."

"Yeah well you teach Defense now, and the Defense professors here haven't exactly had the best track record, have they?" Harry challenged. 

“I suppose not,” Snape granted, but Harry was just getting started. 

“Let’s start with Quirrel, who let a troll into the school that almost killed Hermione, and, oh yeah, he was _hosting_ You-Know-Who! Or Lockhart? _He_ was willing to let Ginny _die_ in the Chamber!”” Even as he said it, white-hot anger rose from deep within and coursed through him in time with his pulse at the memory of just how close he’d come to losing his two friends. “And—” then he faltered at the realization of who he was about to implicate next. 

In that moment of hesitation, Snape picked up where Harry left off. 

“Lupin? Ah, yes. As I recall, he endangered everyone in this school for the sake of schoolboy sentimentality, as well as through his own carelessness by neglecting the potion I so _generously_ took the time to brew—”

“Stop!” Harry blurted, slammed again by guilt as thoughts of Sirius’ short presence in his life and sharp absence in Remus’ resurfaced. “I know that happened, but _he didn’t mean_ …”

“He was not being intentionally malicious as the others were, no,” Snape reluctantly acknowledged. 

That admission renewed Harry’s energy, and he picked up his rant. “And what about Moody! Or, not-Moody, because that one was actually Barty Crouch Jr. who was _trying_ to kill me!”

“Yes…” Snape shifted slightly. “That was… a rather large oversight on Dumbledore’s part.” 

“Oversight, hell!”

“Language.”

Harry pressed his balled fists into the couch cushion. “Don’t give me this ‘no professor at Hogwarts would harm a student’ bull when literal Death Eaters walk the halls and classrooms unchecked!”

It was precisely in the way Snape did not flinch that Harry realized he’d struck a nerve. An apology surfaced, briefly, before he pushed the idea away, instead vindicated that his point was valid. He hesitated again, unsure of whether he wanted to reveal this fact to this particular Professor and confident that he’d made his point, but now that he’d started it seemed important to drive it home. “And Umbridge… tried to use the Cruciatus curse on me.”

Snape’s expression hardened, but after a moment, he conceded, "I can see why your trust in Defense professors is… minimal."

"I haven't exactly had the best experiences!"

"No, you have not. But I promise you here and now that I will _never_ harm, abuse, or torture you—in any sense of the word, and certainly not as _punishment_ for…slipping up. Do you understand?"

Harry met Snape's dark eyes. They seemed to glitter in their intensity, attempting to impart the earnestness and conviction their owner was trying to convey. His own eyes slid away and he gave a weak, unconvincing nod.

"Do—you—understand?" Snape repeated. When there was no forthcoming response, the grim man withdrew his wand, moving it slowly and deliberately. “Do you need me to make an Unbreakable Vow?”

Harry gaped at the proffered wand in stunned silence before recovering his wits and quickly shaking his head. "No sir, I believe you. I mean, you've—you've been decent, so far, for you. Mostly."

_"Mostly?"_

"Well, I don't appreciate you keeping me here against my will. And that trick with the Legilimency was cheap!" he returned hotly.

"I will be the first to admit that this arrangement is not ideal, Mr. Potter. My task is to ensure you do not continue down this self-destructive path you have started on."

"Right, " Harry agreed in a defeated voice, slumping back into the couch. "I know that Dum- _Professor_ Dumbledore is ashamed of me, because of what I've been doing, because it's un-Gryffindor and that's why he passed me off to you, and…"

"What? Harry—no." Snape rested his elbows on his knees and pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "You are laboring under a misapprehension."

"Then why…?"

"The Headmaster entrusted your… care… to me because I have the most experience and skill in these matters."

“Oh… ‘cause you’re Head of Slytherin? I guess that makes sense; most of the really troubled students are in _your_ House, so you’ve probably dealt with all sorts of things.” 

"Yes," the Professor quietly replied after a beat. "He cares a great deal about you. He wanted to make sure you'd get—help—from someone who has handled these cases before. I was the logical choice."

"Yeah, okay."

"Make no mistake: I am, by nature, solitary. I do not allow anyone to even visit my private quarters for more than a couple of hours, much less stay indefinitely… but as usual, you are a _special case_ and I do not see any other way to ensure your safety until I can trust you on your own again—unless you'd rather be confined to a bed in the infirmary. I presume you don't consider that a viable option?"

"Absolutely not!" Harry protested, aghast. 

"Then we will have to learn to tolerate the current arrangement."

"Yes sir."

"As for the so-called trick with the Legilimency—my methods may be… direct, but they are effective. Would you have otherwise divulged the information I requested?"

"Er."

"An honest answer, if you would."

"No, I guess not."

"Precisely. And yet it is vital that I have all of the necessary facts going forward, or else Dumbledore has wasted both your time and mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir. I just… wish you wouldn't do that again. Enter my mind like that."

"Then I would suggest next time I ask you a question, you answer me."

Harry frowned, but didn’t reply. 

“That being said, tomorrow is Monday, and I do not get paid to babysit Gryffindor brats, so I will be necessarily attending to my duties as a professor. During the week you will keep yourself busy and out of trouble while I am gone; you may utilize my library, do schoolwork, or engage in other quiet, respectful activities. No access will be granted to my lab; all practicals will be conducted on weekends.” 

Harry shifted restlessly. “How long are we going to keep this up?”

“For however long it takes, Potter.”

“Will I at least be allowed my wand back while you’re gone?”

“No. You’ve proven already that you can and will use it as a tool for self harm, and so you cannot yet be trusted with it. If you should have want of such a tool, you will come to me first. Remember the cardinal rule.”

“But what if I need to defend myself, and you’re not here, and I’m completely wandless? What then?”

“Just what do you expect you will need to defend yourself from, Potter?”

Harry froze, cold to his core. He’d heard nearly those exact words from last year’s Defense professor.

_Do you expect to be attacked during my classes? … There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter. … Who do you imagine would want to attack children like yourselves?_

He swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly dry, as he considered how to answer that question in a way that wouldn’t evoke another professor’s ire. 

“He’s out there—you’re maybe the only one who knew for certain I wasn’t lying last year, and… how do I know one of your comrades on the _other side_ won’t come calling while you’re away?”

“Well, for one, I doubt the Headmaster would be too pleased if my Floo were open to the Death Eaters. Were that the case, do you truly believe you and I would be sitting here having this conversation at all?” Snape drawled. 

“Point taken. But, I can have it during practicals?” he pressed.

“As Defense is a critical part of your education, I should say so. You will be allowed your wand under my supervision until these restrictions are no longer necessary.”

Harry relaxed marginally and nodded assent. “So we are doing practicals in Defense too, not just Potions?”

“You seem very fixated on the idea of utilizing Defense theory in practice. I am well aware that students did next to nothing in class last year, but that has never been one of your weaker subjects,” Snape leaned forward, eyes narrowed in curiosity. "I am sensing there is more to your displeasure with our—former—High Inquisitor than just her subpar classroom management."

"No. There's nothing. It's nothing," he denied, a bit too quickly. Harry didn't want Snape to know about his detentions with the former Defense professor, or how angry and powerless they made him feel, because how could he ever make this man understand that it was okay if he made himself bleed but when someone else forced his hand (literally) it was _wrong, wrong, wrong?_ What kind of hypocrite was he?

"Ah. I see you'd like to revisit our foray into the Mind Arts. Care to attempt a little Occlumency this time? It would make it more fun for me, at least," a nasty smile and a certain glint in his obsidian eyes made Snape seem suddenly dangerous. 

"No! Don't do that!"

"Then spill."

"Fine," Harry spat, trapped. "She had me write… lines… in detention."

"Lines." An arched eyebrow.

"Yeah. With... a blood quill."

 _"WHAT?"_ Snape exploded. For a just moment his rigid control slipped, and Harry read murder in the way his fingers curled into themselves like deadly claws retracting. When he continued, his tone had dropped again to a furious hiss. "That is _entirely_ illegal! How that infernal woman could possibly think that she could get away with flagrant _torture_ of students…!"

"So… you don't…?"

"If the next word out of your mouth is 'approve,' I will have you scrubbing cauldrons with your own toothbrush for a month, you hear?"

"Yes sir."

"Dark artifacts have no place within the walls of Hogwarts. I will see to it she pays for what she's done—one way or another," he murmured softly. Harry considered that a dangerous Snape might actually be advantageous to have around, so long as he wasn’t the one in danger. 

When the other man remained silent for a few moments, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, Harry tentatively prompted, “Was there anything else? Professor?”

“Hm? Oh. No, I suppose that’s all for now. The remainder of the day is yours to do with what you will. Try to make it something productive. And do not be late for dinner.”

Harry stood. As he retreated to the relative safety of the guest room, Snape warned, “Behave!” Harry shut the door slightly more forcefully than was strictly necessary and settled in to study until lunch. 

——-

As the week progressed, they settled into an uneasy routine. 

True, the boy was moody, defiant, and often had difficulty holding his tongue—but that was considered ‘normal’ for teenage boys in general, and this one in particular. Further, his compliance seemed forced, but given the nature of their situation, Severus wouldn’t have expected anything different. Overall, he was being amazingly well-behaved (for Potter), and come Monday Severus saw no reason not to leave him alone in his quarters while he attended to classes though he had been admittedly hesitant. 

He was tense throughout his morning lessons that first day, and this agitation bled into his classroom demeanor. The students picked up very quickly on the fact that their Defense professor was on edge, though they could only guess at why, and by afternoon word had spread to all sections to avoid ticking him off. 

As is was, 35 house points were deducted from Gryffindor, 10 from Ravenclaw, 5 from Hufflepuff, and 5 from Slytherin as well—but only because during a practice duel, his _star student_ Crabbe had thrown a hex at Goyle so poorly aimed that it had missed Goyle by a good three feet and and clipped Severus on the shoulder instead. It had been nasty but not particularly strong (this was Crabbe’s spellwork, after all). A standard Stinging Hex, Severus had barely registered it, but he very much did not appreciate it all the same. 

Two students had earned a detention (not Crabbe, because some students were just too witless to bother disciplining). One had been a third year Ravenclaw boy who had the nerve to show up late and proceed to speak over another student, out of turn. The other was a fifth year Gryffindor girl who had pretended to cast an Unforgivable at a terrified Hufflepuff student who was well-known to be pants at Defense.

"It was just a laugh, Professor Snape!" she had protested, but Professor Snape wasn't laughing.

By the end of that day, he was very much looking forward to retiring to his quarters for the evening. He returned to the dungeons with some trepidation, various scenes of what he might find there running through his head. 

He was fairly certain that he had not left any potential tools of self harm laying about. Potions knives were locked away in his lab, Potter’s wand was stored safely in a drawer in Severus’ own bedroom, he’d even put his letter opener away. 

Was it enough? What if Potter had gotten... _up to something?_ What if it wasn't that at all, but something else entirely, such as trying to brew unsupervised? 

No... that would require the brat take an active role in his education and that wasn't very likely, not without Granger nagging him at every turn. Besides, the lab was sealed off when Severus was out.

_I’m just being paranoid._

Still, it was with much relief that upon entering his quarters, Severus found everything as he'd left it, not a Potions journal out of place. Harry was merely lounging on the couch engrossed in some Muggle thriller from his library.

Severus relaxed by degrees each day nothing went wrong. He still anticipated being pulled aside by the boy for what would surely be an uncomfortable conversation (“Professor, you said I could come to you if…”) but it never came; the boy mostly stayed out of his way. He wasn't sure if this was a sign that things were good, that Potter was improving and that he wasn't feeling like hurting himself after all, or if it was a sign that Potter was being stubborn and refusing to seek counsel even when he was in distress.

Severus got his answer near the end of the week. 

There had been no major catastrophes or dire emergencies and he was equal parts relieved and suspicious. On a whim he decided to skip dinner in the Great Hall in favor of taking it in private, arriving back in his quarters earlier than expected. The first thing he noticed as he quietly shut the door behind him were things out of place. It was subtle, but he wasn't a spy for nothing, and his instincts urged him to investigate.

Little things tripped the alarms in his head. A stack of papers here, a book there. A desk drawer, not quite closed, as if someone had been searching through it and shut it in haste. Then, he heard a cabinet door shut forcefully in the vicinity of the kitchenette. Severus crept up to the entrance, partially concealing himself in the doorway until he could determine the exact nature of the situation. 

He was greeted by the sight of Potter rummaging through the cabinets and drawers, pulling various kitchen utensils from their storage. So far, he’d gathered a pile that consisted of a pair of metal tongs, a cheese grater, and a corkscrew. Severus scowled, immediately seeing the relationship between each of those items: they all had sharp points or edges. He knew exactly what the brat was up to. Still unaware of his professor’s presence, the boy ripped open a drawer, searching through it almost frantically and tossing aside whatever he deemed useless. 

A spatula landed at Severus’ feet and his cheeks colored in slight embarrassment when he realized which one it was. Red rubber with a bright yellow lion painted onto its surface, a gently waving banner proudly proclaimed _Gryffindor_ —a gag gift from Minerva after a particularly humiliating defeat on the Quidditch pitch as a way to assert her House’s dominance. In retaliation an entire set of fine china, each piece lovingly etched with the Slytherin House crest, had found its way into Minerva’s own hutch. The snakes had been charmed to wiggle and flick their tongues whenever Minerva was near, and for some _mysterious reason_ , no one seemed able to remove the dinnerware from her cabinet, not even Flitwick, whom she had been frustrated enough to consult; Severus always got the last laugh. 

Presently, though, he wasn’t amused in the slightest. The boy had exhausted that drawer and moved to the next, finally finding what he had presumably been looking for: knives. He stilled and pulled one out, examining it carefully. Severus chose that moment to silently creep forward, coming up behind him.

“Have you quite finished ransacking my quarters?”

Potter let out an undignified scream and jumped a foot in the air. 

“How do you _do_ that?” he grumbled, looking guiltily up at Severus with an expression rather like Fang’s when Hagrid caught him sneaking food from the pile of meat meant for forest creatures. Severus snorted.

“I’m aware that you’re unusually oblivious, but even you know that I am a spy,” he replied in his silkiest tones, leaning in close, “And I would be a rather poor spy were I not observant and skilled at avoiding detection myself. I have thus developed an uncanny ability to sense when someone is _up—to—something.”_

“I was just…” Potter began by way of explanation. 

Severus merely arched an eyebrow.

“Just…” He waved his hands uselessly. 

Severus let the silence stretch out, suppressing a smirk at his student’s increasingly uncomfortable facial expression. He’d found long ago that sometimes the best way to encourage someone to talk was to offer no encouragement at all. 

“...gonna make dinner?” Potter finally suggested, offering what he clearly hoped was a convincing grin. 

“Try again.”

Severus smiled thinly in triumph when the boy deflated. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the kitchenette. As expected, Potter followed. Once again, they were seated in front of the fireplace, and with a snap of his fingers, Severus rerouted the dinner he already intended to take in his quarters to the coffee table between them. 

He gracefully balanced his plate on his knee and deliberately arranged his napkin and silverware. Potter glowered at his own plate, then finally snatched a single buttered roll to munch on with palpable reluctance. 

“Why?” Severus asked after a moment. 

The word hung in the stagnant air, filling the space between them, somehow expanding into every recess and crevice in the stonemason walls until they were almost suffocated by it. For a long moment, neither said a word. Severus sighed in agitation, about to break the silence, when Potter spoke. 

“I don’t know.”

Three simple words. Severus was certain they were the most honest words he’d heard all day. They explained nothing and everything at once. 

“Can you elaborate?”

“On what? I don’t know!” the boy snarled in frustration. “I just—felt—so _stupid_. I’ve been down here for like a week and everyone thinks I’m off doing heroic things for the Order like the Savior I’m supposed to be, ‘cause that’s the excuse you gave them, and instead I’m really just hiding in the dungeons like a spineless coward, helping no one, doing nothing, while Voldemort continues to gain power!” He tossed the roll back on his plate buried his head in his hands. 

Severus winced at the casual usage of the Dark Lord’s name, but all he said was, “I see.” At least now he was getting somewhere. He tapped his chin ponderously as he considered his next words. “I wouldn’t exactly say that you’re doing _nothing_. You’re working on helping yourself.”

“No, _you’re_ working on helping me, because Dumbledore said you had to, and so here we are.” Potter threw himself back on the couch theatrically, frowning at the ceiling. 

“I am here to help you, that is true, and _Professor_ Dumbledore _did_ orchestrate this arrangement. However, I cannot help you if you do not allow me to. _So stop thwarting me.”_

“What?” Potter pushed himself upright again, shaking his disheveled fringe out of his eyes to focus on the Professor for the first time since he’d initiated the conversation. 

“Why can you not follow the simplest directions? I make such meager requests of you.” He shook his head ruefully and sighed. “All I asked is that you _come to me_ if you found yourself at that point again. I hear nothing from you all week, yet when I arrive home you are tossing my quarters upside down in search of something _sharp_.” The last part emerged as a low hiss.

“I didn’t know what else to do, okay? I was just so… frustrated. And it helps. It makes me feel better.” The boy crossed his arms defensively and looked away, glaring into the flames. “ _You_ wouldn’t understand,” he added under his breath.

“Oh, indeed?” Severus raised an eyebrow in challenge. Every instinct in him railed against the very idea of voicing the next words, but he couldn’t deny himself the satisfaction of proving the brat so very wrong. “Actually, I would.”

Potter’s head snapped back to him, wide eyes magnified by his round lenses. His brow creased and he bit his cheek before his curiosity got the better of him. “What… does that mean?” 

Severus said nothing, instead pinning him in place with a piercing stare and impassive expression. He thrust his right arm forward and expertly unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve, all the while maintaining unwavering eye contact as horrified comprehension dawned on the Gryffindor’s face. 

_“There,”_ he spat as he shoved his sleeve up past his elbow. Potter’s gaze skittered away, but he reined it back with a sharp command. _“Look at me.”_

Potter dragged his focus to the Professor’s arm and was unable to stifle a gasp of surprise at the sight before him: row upon row of thin, precise horizontal scars marring the pale flesh, most old enough to have faded to lines of silver. When he was certain he’d seen enough, Severus pulled the sleeve down with one fluid motion and refastened the buttons at the cuff, concealing as quickly as he’d revealed what lie beneath.

The boy shook his head in denial, drained of color. “No way. You…” he breathed, _“You?”_

Severus’ lips stretched in a grim parody of a smile. “Yes, _me_. I should hope that you will now think twice before making such presumptions in future.”

For once in his life, the presumptuous twit seemed to have nothing to say, instead staring into the middle space as he processed this revelation, a revelation Severus was already beginning to regret. Disgusted with himself and suddenly deeply uncomfortable in the presence of his student—this student who had just seen evidence of Severus’ own weakness—he brought the conversation back to its original point. 

“The very first rule I established, when it became clear to me that you would continue to plague my quarters, was _do not harm yourself_ —or have you so quickly forgotten that little conversation?” A severe look prompted the boy to reply. 

“No, sir…”

“I do seem to recall instructing you to _come to me_ first before acting on this foolish impulse. Obviously, there was very good reason for that.”

“Yes, sir…”

Severus tapped on the edge of his plate with his fork, pointedly reminding his student that he was supposed to be having a meal. Potter glumly picked up his fork and resumed poking at his dinner. After a moment, he looked up again, those damnable green eyes wide with genuine inquiry. 

“Sir… I know you said to come to you if I wanted to—you know… but, you weren’t here. And you weren’t due to be back ‘till after dinner. So, how was I supposed to talk to you? I can't just show up in the middle of class. I'm supposed to be away on Order business, right?”

Severus blinked, aware that he’d made a very valid point. Generally when he handled these cases, the student had as much free reign of the castle as he himself did, meaning that they could approach him after class or during office hours. However, being at any given point around the castle while Potter was confined to the dungeons did make contact and communication rather difficult. 

He could simply suggest that Potter exercise some self-control until Severus was available… but he discarded the idea even as he thought it, because he knew just as well that that wasn’t how any of this worked. Now was not the time to be harsh… firm, yes, but it wouldn’t do to dismiss the mistrustful boy and cause him to shut down further. 

"Very true," Severus conceded. "I will charm a mailbox to act as a conduit between my quarters and my classroom. If you should need me, you need only drop a letter in, and it will discreetly appear on my end. I can then dismiss my class, if necessary.

“While I am in these quarters, you may seek me out personally. If I am in my lab or my bedroom, you need only knock. Even if I am sleeping.” He leaned forward to set his now-empty plate on the coffee table and banished it back to the kitchens. “Do you have any further questions?”

“No sir,” he replied as he set his own plate down to be banished.

Severus nodded and stood, smoothing imaginary crumbs off his clothing by habit more than any real need to. Potter took the opportunity to try to slink away, but before he could make his escape, Severus’ crisp voice cut across the room. “You are not off the hook for this.”

The boy froze and held himself still as if waiting for a judge to pass a death sentence, with the air of someone who’s only hope was for the least painful execution. Severus resisted the impulse to roll his eyes, briefly wondering what it would take to get it through his thick skull that he wasn’t going to have him drawn and quartered. 

“I want you to write a list of ten alternatives to self harm. Yes—” he held up a hand when it looked as if Potter would protest the assignment, “—I know that we have just resolved the communication issue. Nevertheless, you may find it to be a useful reference. We will review your list Sunday evening, so have it completed by then. Dismissed.”

As Potter eagerly took his leave of the room, Severus couldn’t help but feel equally relieved to be rid of his presence and left to his own disquieting thoughts.

——-

“I absolutely insist you join me for lunch, my boy.”

“Headmaster—” Severus began halfheartedly, but before he even finished the word, his will to protest withered away. All week, he had successfully avoided spending any more time with Albus than was strictly necessary as per his job description, but when he received the directive to meet him in his office Saturday noon, he knew this was one battle he would not win. 

Instead, he primly took the proffered seat across from the Headmaster. With a flourish, Albus waved his hand, and the desk’s assortment of parchment and quills gave way to a luncheon display. He gestured cheerily to the spread of sandwiches and juices. Reluctantly, Severus accepted a cheese sandwich, which he began to nibble on if for no other reason than to keep his hands occupied. 

“Read any interesting articles in your Potions journals lately?” Albus inquired between bites of his own egg mayonnaise sandwich. 

“No.”

“Hm. I haven’t taught Transfiguration for decades, but I never did cancel my subscription to _Transfiguration Today_. Do you know what the topic of my first published article was?”

“I do not.”

“It was an analysis of the legal ramifications of a theoretical workaround to the First Exception of Gamp’s Law—”

“Fascinating.”

“Severus?” Albus finally ceased his chatter and put his sandwich down, peering at his Potions professor with slight concern. “You don’t seem very engaged in this conversation. We can talk about non-academic topics instead, if you’d rather…”

“If all you wanted was a social call, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint. I am rather busy of late, so thank you for the lunch, and if you will excuse me…” he set down his own barely-eaten sandwich and moved to leave. 

“No, you are not excused.”

Severus froze mid-step and met Albus’ eyes for the first time since entering the office, barely concealed venom in his gaze, but slowly returned to his vacated chair all the same. 

“What did you wish to discuss, Headmaster? Surely there is a specific reason you have held me here like an errant schoolboy?”

“Eat, Severus, and we will talk of errant schoolboys,” Albus rebuked paternally. In reply, Severus took a large, vicious bite of sandwich, all while keeping his pointed glare trained on the older wizard. Much to his consternation, Albus merely chuckled. “With that stern facade of yours, it’s easy to forget that you are the youngest professor on staff, but times like this, it shows, my boy.” 

Severus tossed his sandwich back on his plate in disgust. “I will not sit here and be called childish while you waste my time talking in circles—”

“Easy. I meant only that you’ve got a stubborn streak a mile wide. _You_ are not the ‘errant schoolboy’ I wished to discuss. I would like you to update me on young Harry’s progress since he came under your supervision.”

At the mention of the Gryffindor student’s name, Severus’ scowl deepened. He pressed his lips together in a thin line while organizing his thoughts on the matter. 

“Like in all other aspects of his life, Potter’s progress is unsatisfactory. His will is weak; he does not seem committed to changing his behavior or bettering himself in any way. I was correct in my original assessment last week when I told you he would not readily accept my help. If it were mere distrust of me, I could accept that—even praise it as his one and only sensible instinct—but the reason for his immeasurably meager improvement has more to do with him not taking this whole situation seriously to begin with.”

“I see,” Albus replied steadily. “That’s an awfully thorough judgement for having only been working with him for a week, is it not? Might you be too hasty, Severus?”

Severus snorted in derision. “Hasty? No. I have had to endure him in my classes for over five years; I can safely say I am familiar with his character. His behavior is no different than I’d expect: moody, disrespectful—he disregarded the very first rule I set!—and is so arrogant as to believe that he’s above mine or anyone else’s help, flouting—”

Albus held up a hand to interject. “In your fifteen years as Head of Slytherin House, how many cases of troubled students have you dealt with?”

Severus blinked, thrown by the abrupt change in topic. “That’s a rather broad category. What would you consider ‘troubled’ in this context?”

“Let’s say students who hurt themselves intentionally. An exact number comes to mind, am I correct?” 

“Yes,” he replied softly. “There have been… eleven cases that I have overseen personally in Slytherin House.”

“And of those eleven, how many cases were resolved in full within one week?” Albus regarded Severus knowingly. Severus looked away. 

“None,” he admitted. 

“Recovery is a long and difficult road. You must grant the boy patience.”

“You do not understand, Albus!” he growled, low. “I gave him one instruction. One! To speak to me before harming, yet I caught him tossing my kitchen for _knives_ , and then lying to my face when I cornered him. The insolent brat thinks this is all a game. It is not a matter of trying and failing; he refuses to try at all.”

“Severus,” Albus appealed in a placating tone, “you must understand, Harry has not had the easiest life, so this… disinclination to trust authority figures is only natural.”

Severus narrowed his eyes at the Headmaster and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Oh yes,” he spat acidly, “I heard all about his distrust for authority figures, Defense professors in particular. Did you know that my predecessor in this post attempted to cast an Unforgivable on him, or that she utilized blood quills in her detentions?”

His lip curled in a small, bitter smirk of triumph when the older wizard paled and shifted awkwardly at the uncomfortable revelation. 

“I had heard rumors…” he confessed.

“The boy expressed concern that I would _curse him_ as punishment, that since he was banished to the dungeons, I have free reign to do what I will to him, and there would be no one to intercede.” He steepled his fingers and leaned forward slightly. “Curious, isn’t it, that a boy of just sixteen would equate simple mistakes with pain? Tell me: is this lesson a normal part of Hogwarts’ curriculum, or might he have learned this… elsewhere?”

Albus exhaled a deep sigh and shook his head. “I have only ever done what is best for—”

“For the greater good.”

Severus held the Headmaster’s gaze in silent challenge neither was willing to back down from, but after a moment, Severus glanced away and returned to the topic at hand.

“I still don’t see why you do not involve someone more… sensitive. If not Minerva, then Madam Pomfrey. Hagrid.”

“It is true that any of these people might elicit a friendlier response from young Harry, but I should think that, aside from personal experience, you have the most sticktoitiveness of any staff. It _has_ to be you.”

“... _Sticktoitiveness._ ” 

“Hm,” Albus affirmed with a sage nod. “Sticktoitiveness. It’s a charming Muggle phrase I’m rather taken with. It means to have the quality of ‘sticking-to’ a commitment.”

“I gathered as much!”

“Then it should be clear—”

“What! That you think I’m the only person in the castle who can see anything through to the end? I’m certain my colleagues will be thrilled to hear your dismal opinion on their—”

“Watch yourself, Professor Snape,” Albus warned coolly. When the Potions professor seemed to have himself in check, the older wizard continued. “I am aware of your misgivings, Severus; you have registered them repeatedly. However, I firmly believe in your ability to succeed. You have not failed me yet and I do not expect you to do so now.

“Think of it as an Order mission, if you must. Harry is our best hope to defeat the Dark Lord; thus, it is in our best interest to have him healthy in body and mind.”

“Believe me, Albus, I’m trying—” 

“Then you need to try harder.”

Severus nodded, a single resigned jerk of his head, and averted his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me! 
> 
> I know in the past I had said I aimed for a new chapter every two weeks, but I don't think I'll be able to keep up such a pace given that I'm taking a full schedule of courses (double chemistry, lucky me! no, truly, I live for chem). I'm also in the process of trying to find a job... no luck so far, but if that does pan out for me then I'll have even less time. Also, up until this point, the chapters I've been posting were mostly already written and just needed editing. I've written scenes and parts of this fic on and off for a bit over a year now, but now I've gone through all the material that was just sitting around in drafts! So each chapter going forward will have to be written as as edited before uploading. I'll give an optimistic pace of one chapter per month until the semester is over, but that really depends on my schedule. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience and understanding! I would really appreciate it if you left a review, they're always nice to pull up and reference when I need a bit of motivation.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After an unintentional 6 month hiatus, we're live with a new chapter. Apologies to follow in endnotes.
> 
> CW for chapter: depictions of self-harm

Harry glared at the sheet of parchment in front of him. He’d put off this ‘assignment’ as long as he could, even preferring to work through his schoolwork if it meant avoiding having to give _this_ one any thought. 

But now he could no longer procrastinate. Snape had said he wanted this done by Sunday, and the Professor did not grant extensions. On any assignment. Ever. 

Harry huffed in agitation as he brought his quill to the parchment once more, just below the lonely title that stared accusingly up at him. 

_10 Alternatives to Self Harm_

This was stupid! Why did he have to make a list for this, anyway? It wasn’t as if it’d be useful. He didn’t plan on quitting, not really—just ‘cutting back’ on the cutting long enough to satisfy that sadistic Slytherin. And after that? Well, he was sure that no one would be up in his business like this once he got back to Gryffindor Tower, and Snape wouldn’t dare follow him into Lion territory, so… problem solved. 

And in the meantime, if he truly had to do _something_ , Snape had set up that charmed mailbox in case Harry needed to _talk to someone_. 

Harry snorted in contempt at the very thought of it. He didn’t need this… this hand-holding treatment. Everything would have been just fine if the greasy git hadn’t snuck back home early to lurk in the shadows like some kind of creeping slime mold. 

As he ran the plume of his quill over his lips, contemplating, a thought struck him. Perhaps it would be a good idea to use the mailbox once or twice so it would seem like he was making a sincere effort. And, in the same train of thought, perhaps he better play along with this assignment. Just to appease Snape; not because it was worth the effort in itself. 

_10 Alternatives to Self Harm_

_1._

One. What’s a good first ‘alternative’? He glanced around his room—the _guest room_ —until finally spying the Muggle thriller he’d set by the bed stand. 

_1\. Read a book_

That sounded good. Snape had plenty of those around here. Vaguely, Harry wondered if Snape did that, himself. 

_2\. Make a hot drink_

That one didn’t sound bad either. It was commonly understood that hot beverages had a calming effect, whether it be tea or cocoa or cider… Harry wished fervently for a mug of Rosmerta’s cider, the kind she served on crisp winter days when the students ventured into Hogsmeade. He sighed wistfully. 

Back to this list. 

_3\. Talk to someone?_

Much as he’d derided the idea only moments ago, Harry felt like that was something Hermione might suggest, if she were here. Which made it a perfect item for this list. 

She’d confided in him before her frustrations with the lack of modern thought in the Wizarding world. In some ways, it was charming—a society frozen in time, unburdened by the demands of the modern industrialized world—but in many ways it showed just how much Magical folk had stagnated as a society after instituting the Statute of Secrecy. 

One thing Muggles had that Wizards didn’t was a concept of mental healthcare, therapy in particular. Hermione had endlessly lamented the Wizarding world’s lack of options in this area. Practically everyone they knew was on her list of people she wanted to send to therapy, including Ron and Neville (“For self-esteem issues,” she explained) and including himself (“Oh Harry, please at least read this book on trauma? Don’t be absurd, of course you’ve experienced trauma.”). 

Harry had always brushed the idea off, knowing she meant well, but too keenly aware of stigma attached to _mental health services_ in the Muggle world to ever be comfortable with the idea. He’d heard Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon’s disparaging remarks about those kind of people often enough—one of the neighbor women had been expelled from the bridge club for suggesting that Dudley attend some sort of anger management workshop.

“How _dare_ you suggest—! There is _nothing_ wrong with my boy!” Her shrieking still rang in Harry’s ears, all these years later. Dudley was just _energetic_ and _boys will be boys_ and if the neighbor’s son had been roughed up a bit, well he ought to learn to stand up for himself, and that was none of Petunia’s concern. 

Harry was a lot of things in Aunt Petunia’s eyes: worthless, useless, freak… but he wasn’t _mental_. He _wasn’t._

Perhaps things like therapy just weren’t as necessary for Wizards… with access to magic and potions, many ills could be cured with the flick of a wand or a sip from a vial. 

But that wasn’t really true, was it? Because if potions could cure all ills, even the ones in your head or your heart, then no wizard would ever turn to hurting themselves the way Harry did. And Harry knew now that there was at least one other wizard who’d done the same thing. And he was a Potions Master. 

If there were anyone at all that Harry could talk to, it would have to be Snape, wouldn’t it? The very idea was loathsome and repugnant, and some part of Harry recoiled in visceral horror at the thought of approaching Snape, of all the people in this godforsaken castle, for some sort of heart-to-heart (he was still unsure if the man even had a heart)—and yet… 

And yet he was the only person Harry knew who could possibly understand, on any level at all, what it was like. Merlin’s _pants_ , why’d it have to be _him?_

Though, now he understood why Dumbledore had banished him to the care of the Head of Slytherin. Well— _care_ was a strong word to associate with Snape, but the man had been… trying, hadn’t he? 

Drops of ink dripped from the neglected quill and stained the margins of the page as Harry contemplated this. The reclusive Professor who so fiercely guarded his privacy had revealed an incredibly private part of his past to Harry, though he still wasn’t quite certain why. He got the feeling that this wasn’t how he typically handled the cases he oversaw. And… he was making an effort to be more accessible, in the form of the charmed mailbox. 

Something the Professor had said came back to Harry then, and for the first time he understood the full impact of what he was offering. 

_If you should need me, you need only drop a letter in… I can then dismiss my class, if necessary._

Dismiss his class! 

Harry was somewhat floored by the notion that the strict Professor would cut his lessons short for _him_. Snape! The surliest, nastiest, most unpleasant person on staff—popularly voted by the students as having a stick furthest up his ass—was willing to do that just to make sure he, Harry Potter, was… okay. 

Part of him felt oddly warmed by this and part of him felt distinctly uncomfortable. He reasoned it likely had something to do with the man’s strong sense of Duty, that’d he’d probably do the same for _any_ student he’d been tasked to help. He could almost hear the echo of the Professor’s voice, dripping with disdain: 

_You’re not special, Potter._

Harry sighed. No, he wasn’t special, not in any way that did a damn bit of good for anyone around him. He had a talent for attracting disaster and death, that’s it. 

_Stop dwelling on your misery and focus!_

The less he let himself get distracted, the sooner he’d get done with this. And maybe that was something to consider: distractions! When he wanted to cut, it was because he was stuck thinking about one awful thing or another. Maybe if he distracted himself with something _good_ , then the urge would fade. 

Harry grinned as he scribbled the next words. 

_4\. Play quidditch_

Because what’s better than quidditch? The sport demanded absolute focus; when he was on the pitch, there was no room in his head to think about anything except strategies and snitches. There was no freer feeling than the heady rush of flight! 

But… he was currently confined to the bowels of the castle, with no opportunity to get on a broomstick down here. Harry got the feeling that Snape had intended for him to list things he could do while he was here, specifically. As he scratched it out, he imagined he could feel the crushing weight of the castle above bearing down on him. 

_4\. Play ~~quidditch~~ a game_

Something involving a board or cards would serve as a distraction just as well, he thought glumly. He was pretty sure he’d seen a chess board in Snape’s sitting room, and maybe if he looked around he could scare up a deck of cards for Exploding Snap, or a set of gobstones. 

With that nasty reminder, his tenuous patience for this tedious exercise vanished, and he felt his hopes (and mood) plummet like a bird shot from a branch. 

Harry glanced around his room (and it _was_ his now, wasn’t it, he thought bitterly) as he searched for inspiration for the rest of this stupid list. A stray sock caught his attention first, and of all possible associations, he thought of Dobby.

_5\. Free a house elf._

He smirked as he recalled the apoplectic rage on Lord Malfoy’s face upon the realization that Harry had just lost him his servant, back in second year. How good it had felt to win one over on that pompous Pureblood arse of a wizard! How he must have been shamed at the ignominy of being bested by a scrawny little Muggle-raised Halfblood! 

His smirk widened as he found his next inspiration: a little dig at the Pureblood fanaticism of Slytherin culture, delivered to the Head of the Snake-pit himself. 

_6\. Polish the heirloom family silverware._

Every Slytherin Pureblood probably had some of that lying around. Harry wondered briefly if Snape kept his locked away among his things here at his Hogwarts residence, or if that was kept safe (and polished) by the house elves at what he assumed would be Snape Manor. 

Here, he made a face—he could not imagine a more distasteful name for a property than _Snape Manor;_ even _Malfoy_ Manor admittedly had a nice alliteration to it. Did ol’ Tom have a Riddle Manor? Harry couldn’t help but laugh at that idea; it sounded like something out of one of Dudley’s Batman games. 

_7\. Peg a dartboard_.

It was possible—likely—that Snape wouldn’t find the prospect of Harry playing with sharp projectiles very amusing, but Harry was beyond caring what Snape thought. He found a vicious satisfaction in thought of throwing darts at a Snape-shaped target. 

And in the spirit of rebellion...

_8\. Smoke a cigarette._

Alright, he’d never actually smoked a cigarette before, or really even given much thought to trying it, though he’d had plenty enough opportunity to if he’d wanted to approach the older boys in the park near the Dursleys’ house. Aunt Petunia had a few choice words about that bunch of “hooligans” but Harry had seen Dudley with them before. 

He imagined himself sauntering into the room wearing a leather jacket and taking a drag on a cig, devil-may-care, like on the telly. Who would faint first: Aunt Petunia or Professor Snape? 

… Hermione, actually. 

Harry resolved to keep no. 8 firmly in the realm of petty fantasy, because he knew that nothing his aunt or Professor could say to him about that would come close to the telling-off he’d get from Hermione, probably accompanied by flyers and statistics from studies about public health… no thanks! 

Though, Harry wasn’t entirely sure if Ron knew what a cigarette even was. Now that he thought about it, smoking didn’t seem to be especially popular among Wizards. 

He felt a pang of loneliness at the thought of his best mates. One week. He’d only been in this mess for about a week, and yet it seemed like a lifetime ago that he last sat in the library studying with Hermione or at the Gryffindor bench of the Great Hall eating breakfast with Ron or relaxed in the common room chatting about nothing important. 

It was simultaneously a disappointment and a relief that he hadn’t received any letters from them asking how his supposed “mission” was going. He could speculate on why he hadn’t heard from them—did they not care, or more likely, was Snape keeping his mail from him?—but he wasn’t exactly sure what he would even say to them right now. It wouldn’t feel right to tell them some bogus details about a made-up Order mission, but he didn’t want to confide in them about what he was really doing, or rather, what he had been doing to himself. Not yet, anyway. 

He huffed in frustration and was only half-sarcastic about the next item on his list. 

_9\. Hug a hippogriff_

The ‘hippogriff’ part wasn’t serious, of course, but the idea of a hug held a certain appeal. Any one of the Weasleys gave expert hugs... except maybe Ron and Percy. Hermione’s could be a bit overbearing, but well-meaning. He’d still happily accept one of hers right now though.

Last item on the list.

What would feel really great right now? What could bring him the most possible joy? 

Easy answer: not be the bloody Boy-Who-Lived!

But even wizards couldn’t become someone else (not without the constant use of Polyjuice). Every wizard in Britain, probably all of Europe, maybe even all of America, knew the story of the baby who defeated the most powerful Dark wizard of the era. How could he ever hope to be anonymous without leaving the Magical community entirely? 

_10\. Get on a train. Go to the sea. Renounce my old life. Never return._

Harry tossed his quill down in triumph. There! Now he’d done the stupid assignment Snape had set. True, 6 of the 10 points were intentionally absurd, and he doubted that Snape would find humor in what he’d written, but that wasn’t Harry’s problem. The dour Professor never found humor in _anything_. 

He folded the parchment once over, feeling suddenly self-conscious of the fact that the quill he’d used to write a list of alternatives to self-harm was the same one whose nib he’d continued to scratch at his skin with, most recently that very morning. Feeling _judgment_ from the list was irrational, he knew, but he shoved it to the other side of the desk regardless. 

But the irony also gave him a grim sense of satisfaction. It was proof to himself that no matter how much Dumbledore and Snape wanted to interfere, Harry would retain this small bit of control in an otherwise predestined life, and _no one_ would take this away from him. 

——-

The impending weekly Potions practical diminished his enjoyment of lunch, but it was unavoidable. After the last of the lunch dishes were Banished to the kitchens, Snape beckoned Harry to the lab. 

A space at a work bench had been cleared and prepped already. With an impatient tap of Snape’s wand, the text snapped open and rustled its pages in agitation until settling on the recipe he had evidently selected for Harry to brew. 

“You have forty-five minutes. Begin.” And with that, Professor Snape melted into the shadows of the lab, nearly forgotten but for his constant observation. 

Harry glanced down at the text; in bold script at the top of the page, the title read simply: _Herbicide Potion_. After quickly scanning the instructions, he moved to collect the required equipment and ingredients, doing his best to ignore the penetrating gaze of the resident wannabe-vampire. From the storage shelves he pulled down a smallish brass cauldron and gathered spines of lionfish, horklump juice, flobberworm mucus, and a collection of powders and leaves. Then he set to work. 

A while later Harry had found a rhythm in his brewing and was almost able to forget the presence of the silent man lurking behind him like an overgrown bat. Humming in quiet satisfaction as he checked the instructions once more and found that the potion looked exactly like it should at this stage, Harry moved on to the next step. He grabbed a handful of leaves included as a ‘standard ingredient’ and was just about to drop them into his cauldron when a pale hand shot out with lightning speed and caught his arm in an iron grip. 

The owner of that hand barked a sharp command, “No!”, at the same time Harry involuntarily yelped in pain, instinctively trying to twist out of the man’s grip. Snape immediately released his arm and pulled away. The pair stared at each other for a tense moment, Harry regarding Snape in wide-eyed horror at what he’d just inadvertently revealed, and Snape regarding Harry with narrowed eyes, black as coal and hard as diamond. 

“In my own home, Potter?” he hissed dangerously. 

Harry struggled to think of something—anything—he could say, but it was as if his voice had abandoned him in that moment. Instead he shrugged and scrutinized the floor, not even bothering to deny it. 

Merlin, perhaps Snape was right about his arrogance if he’d thought he could fool a known _spy_. Unable to move or think clearly, he morosely wondered if the Stunning Spell might have a cousin called _Stupid_ -fy, and if perhaps he’d taken one right to the head recently. 

With a flick of his wand that was really more of a slash, Snape cast a stasis charm on Harry’s potion and bid him to follow. Harry slunk out of the lab behind his teacher. 

They situated themselves opposite each other in the sitting area by the hearth. Snape snapped his fingers and Harry flinched slightly at the sharp sound, but all that came of it was a tray of tea wavering into existence on the coffee table between them. Grateful for something to do with his hands, Harry grabbed a teacup and studied it intently as if he could find an answer in its depths. If he’d taken Trelawney’s class more seriously, perhaps he would. 

The silence dragged on and eventually Harry risked a glance at the Professor. The tension between them was reflected in his posture, etched in the tense lines of his fingers as they gripped their own teacup, in the set of his clenched jaw, in the rigidity of his ramrod-straight pose. Though he was the picture of absolute stoicism, it was obvious that he was in fact deeply bothered.

Finally, he spoke. 

“You went straight behind my back. You did not even attempt to come to me.”

“I…” Harry averted his eyes. What could he say? He’d already been reprimanded once about disregarding the rules, and now that Snape had gone to the trouble of setting up the mailbox system, he had no excuse. Instead, he mustered his most contrite expression. “I’m sorry, Professor.”

Snape didn’t acknowledge Harry’s words for a long moment. Instead, his shoulders drooped with a long exhalation, and he seemed to deflate like a punctured balloon. “What is it, then?” He gestured half-heartedly with one hand, an aborted motion. “Have I not given you reason enough to trust me?”

Harry fidgeted, twining his fingers together in his lap. Where was his Gryffindor courage now, in the face of that question? 

“No—I mean, yes Professor, you have, but that’s not…” He swallowed. “I just thought you might be… upset, if—” he trailed off when Professor Snape bowed his head low over his knees and brought his fingers to his temples, as if trying to stave off a migraine. Harry shifted, unaccustomed to seeing him like this, abruptly feeling as if he were intruding on something private. “Er…?”

“Do you continue to fear my wrath?” His voice sounded tired. “I am still willing to make the Unbreakable Vow that I will not harm you, if my words and actions are insufficient.”

“N-No! That would put your life in danger, wouldn’t it?” Harry stammered. “I can’t have another death on my conscience.”

“My life would be in no danger whatsoever!” Snape snapped, bringing his head up to issue his characteristic glare. “The Vow is fatal only to those who defy it. Luckily for me I’ve no intention of doing so, so your _conscience_ will be spared.” 

“It’s not necessary,” Harry repeated, voice firmer this time. He shifted position, moving to cross his arms, but the Professor leaned forward and caught him by the wrist before he could complete the action, lips compressed in a thin line. 

“I need to heal this.”

Harry didn’t protest as his sleeve was pushed back once again and the uneven scratches were revealed. Snape held out his free hand expectantly and an instant later a small glass jar flew across the room to land in his palm. He unscrewed the lid and began deftly working the tacky yellow paste into the tender skin with firm but careful attention. 

“These don’t require bandaging. They’re shallow. Keep them exposed to the air and they’ll heal faster,” the Potions Master instructed. Finally he withdrew, and Harry allowed his arm to drop limply back by his side. Snape sat back and began wiping the residue off his own fingers with a napkin and without glancing up said, “Bring me the implement you used.”

Harry exited the room without a word and returned with the quill who’s nib he’d been using to score his arm. Hesitant, he placed it into the man’s outstretched hand. The stained fingers closed around it and snatched it away in a manner reminiscent of a venus fly-trap.

Snape brought it to eye-level for closer examination. “Resourceful,” he muttered almost inaudibly, and in less macabre circumstances, Harry might have taken that as a compliment. He expected the quill to be pocketed, and maybe if he was lucky he’d be allowed a Muggle crayon to write with so he couldn’t repeat his performance. With this thought, his cheeks warmed in preemptive embarrassment. 

Instead, Snape muttered a few words in Latin and handed the quill back to Harry. At Harry’s questioning glance, he explained, “It’s now charmed not to pierce skin. I shall do the same to other objects with… potential.”

“Oh.” Harry dully studied the plume in his hand: nothing fancy, a standard goose feather quill, metal nib still just as sharp but now with none of the danger. He set it on the table by his abandoned teacup, the beverage having long since lost its warmth. Then, he glanced back at the figure seated across from him. “Professor?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you stop me from adding those leaves to the potion? Aren’t they a standard ingredient?”

In response, Snape slammed his teacup on the table. 

“You _fool_. You nearly got us both _killed_.” Harry reeled back, meeting Snape’s narrowed eyes; the man’s lip curled in that hated sneer at Harry’s open shock. “Do you know what you almost added to that brew?”

“N-No sir. I mean, I guess not. I _thought_ I was adding japonica leaves?”

“And if you had two brain cells to rub together, that would’ve been the case. Instead, you tried to add _oleander_ leaves. Do you know what would’ve happened, Potter, if oleander had been successfully integrated into the potion?” Harry remained silent, and Snape didn’t wait for a reply, slipping into his lecture voice. “Oleander is highly toxic. The moment the leaves made contact with the surface they would’ve been burned to a crisp and the toxins contained therein would have been released in the form of _poison gas_.” His voice dropped further, slick syllables steeped in contempt. “Tell me, Potter, when you clean your Muggle relatives’ house, do you also think to mix the bleach and ammonia?”

“I’ve considered it…” Harry muttered under his breath. For a brief moment he expected to be reprimanded for such a dark joke, but Snape seemed to be repressing a smirk as if he may have been amused. Harry hesitated, then ventured, “Would I really have— _killed_ —us?” 

“Merlin no!” He shook his head in exasperation. “Are you really so daft as to think I don’t have suppression systems and containment wards in place in case of an accident in the lab? Experimental potions can be tricky and unpredictable. I always employ the most stringent safety protocol… doubly so when _you_ are present in the lab. But you have to exercise caution, regardless! You cannot continue to be so careless!”

Harry had a suspicious feeling that Snape wasn’t talking only about his lab etiquette. 

The Professor stood abruptly. “You will accompany me back to the lab to finish your practical.” Then he turned on his heel and stalked from the room. 

——-

If Harry’s appetite had been poor during lunch, it had declined to make an appearance altogether for dinner. He was on the edge of breaking into a cold sweat at the knowledge that he still had to actually hand in his ‘Alternatives to Self Harm’ assignment, and the dread that took up residence in his stomach left little room for hunger. 

At the table there was no idle conversation, not even mundane chatter like, ‘pass the salt.’ This left Harry free to study his plate with disproportionate interest as he pushed the food around with his fork. 

Ever since getting caught out—again—by Snape earlier in the day, an uneasy feeling had plagued him, this unfamiliar mixture of discomfort mixed with doubt and something like guilt, as if he’d really messed up. But why? He hadn’t felt repentant at all when Snape had caught him in the lavatory. Fearful, embarrassed, and angry: yes—but not _repentant_. He wasn’t quite sure if he was precisely repentant now, either, but he had the distinct feeling that he was somehow in the wrong. 

But _why?_

Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of this vague shame, and that was frustrating. Unable to articulate it even to himself, he viciously stabbed a chunk of potato onto his fork instead. 

Across the table, the Professor raised an eyebrow. 

Harry took a moment to relish the delightfully savage thought of stabbing _him_ with the sharp tines of the fork, instead of a stupid potato… 

But aside from being a terrible idea in practice, he was aware that he physically _couldn’t_ do so even if he’d wanted to, not after Snape had charmed all items ‘with potential’ to be incapable of piercing skin. The more he thought about it, the more indignant he became. Dumbledore would probably speak high words about ‘recovery’ if asked, but Harry knew that this was little more than _childproofing_ … and every part of him resented it. 

He didn’t realize he’d passed all of dinnertime caught in tetchy reflection until the other occupant’s deep voice startled him out of his ruminations. “Are you quite finished rearranging your meal, or do you intend to actually eat any of it?”

“Hm? Oh—no, I’m done.”

The plate, still more full than empty but now cold and joyless as the owner of these quarters, vanished along with the rest of the dinner settings. 

“I seem to recall setting you an assignment. I don’t suppose you remembered to _do_ it?” 

“As a matter of fact, I _did.”_

“Let’s see it then.”

Harry marched down the hall to his room and returned a moment later with the folded sheet of parchment detailing his list of alternatives. The Professor had reseated himself in a chair by the fireplace, back-lit by the glow of the hearth. Despite the warmth of the cheerful fire, the effect was nothing short of ominous. Harry held the list out to Snape, who snatched it from his hand and crisply shook it open without a word. 

Harry stood awkwardly for a moment, shifting his weight, but when it became clear that he would not receive an invitation to sit, he claimed the couch for himself. 

“Well, Potter, I must admit I am surprised. It appears as if you’ve put a modicum of thought into this list. If only you’d do the same for classwork.” 

Harry frowned, but before he could fire off a suitable retort, Snape continued. 

“Appearances, however, can be deceiving. Sixty percent of this list is utter nonsense, Potter.”

“One hundred percent of that assignment was utter nonsense, _Professor_.”

Snape didn’t so much as glance up as he replied, “I’d give you detention for that comment, but that would place me in the undesirable position of spending even more time in your presence,” but the set of his jaw was hard as he concluded with, “Five points from Gryffindor.” 

Harry crossed his arms peevishly in response. 

“Your first few suggestions are reasonable. Distraction… comfort. Those are the underlying concepts of actions like reading a book, taking a hot beverage, or seeking someone’s company. But you crossed out number 4. Why?”

“What?”

“Number 4, Potter. _Play a game_.” Snape tapped the paper impatiently. “What was your original thought?”

“Oh… nothing, I, er… misspelled a word.”

“You are lying, Potter. I am well aware that your academic performance is frequently below average, but at the age of sixteen even you can spell such elementary words as _play_ , _a_ , and _game_.”

Harry glanced to the side and mumbled something that sounded like, “I-ro-lay-kwi-ch.”

“Speak up clearly!”

“I said I wrote _play quidditch_!” Harry met Snape’s gaze defiantly, despite the heat creeping across his face in anger and embarrassment even as he steeled himself for the inevitable sneering mockery.

Instead, all that came forth was a slight, “Hm,” of acknowledgement as Snape’s attention returned to the paper. Harry still held himself stiff, waiting for an onslaught of derision, but after a moment the Slytherin Head merely flicked his curious gaze back to Harry and asked, “Why did you do that?”

“Why did I...? I’m the seeker for Gryffindor’s team! I happen to _enjoy_ —”

“ _Precisely_ ,” Snape enunciated, “So why did you cross it out?” 

“Well the architecture of the dungeons doesn’t exactly allow for unrestricted flight,” Harry pointed out shortly, flinging an encompassing gesture at the low ceiling to enforce his point. “But, um, like you said, the uh, underlying concept was to find a distraction. I think you have a chess set around, so, any game will do… I guess.” 

He slumped slightly back on the couch, trying to hide his fresh disappointment at his subterranean confinement but not entirely successful. Once again his gaze darted away from the figure seated across from him, opting to scrutinize the bookshelves lining the walls for board games, decks of cards, or _any_ sign that the Professor had some concept of ‘fun’ that didn’t involve reading gruesome treatises on the Dark Arts or dry Potions theory texts. 

“The remainder of your assignment is truly pitiful, Potter,” Snape said a moment later, and even without looking at the man Harry could hear the sneer in his voice. A harsh crunch of paper indicated that he’d crumpled the assignment and tossed it aside. “What were you hoping to accomplish by presenting this drivel? Do you find yourself amusing, Potter? Because I assure you, I am not amused.”

Harry considered saying something rude about the Slytherin’s tastes in humor, but bit his cheek instead, thinking better of it. 

“Your attention over here, if you would please.”

He turned to face toward Snape again and dragged his eyes back to his face—but bewilderingly, he did not find the anger he expected to meet… only disappointment. 

“I did not set this assignment for my own entertainment. There was a purpose. It was my—clearly vain—hope that by applying consideration in a… structured format, you might come to realize there _are_ alternative ways to handle things. But, Harry—”

Harry, focus beginning to drift once more, snapped his attention back to Snape at the use of his first name, but the man seemed not to have realized he’d said it at all. 

“—first, you must want to try. If you don’t, then there is not a single thing I, the Headmaster, nor anyone else can do for you. Since you are determined not to seek me out when you have a problem, I must start enforcing a policy of random checks in the hopes it will deter you from taking action yet again. You leave me no choice.” 

Harry nodded tersely, however he couldn’t help but squirm in his seat as that earlier discomfort returned in force. Only now, he could put a name to it: guilt. 

“Dismissed.” 

——-

Severus Snape was not a man to make idle threats. True to his word, the next day he waylaid his charge for one of the promised ‘random checks.’ 

The boy had met his request with a defiant tilt of his chin and tightly clenched jaw—typical Gryffindor indignation—but Severus had found no new marks of any sort when the sleeves were pushed back. 

Severus was no fool. He knew perfectly well that students were apt to be sneaky, sometimes for no other reason than for the simple thrill of being contrary, and that Potter could easily have moved on to marring the flesh of some other less accessible part of his body. But this child was the poster boy for Gryffindor—subtlety had never been his specialty and thank Merlin for that. Some of his Slytherins had gotten quite creative in their attempts at evasion, but Severus was fairly confident that he could take Potter at face value. 

_Fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves…_ or under them, as it were. 

He would not admit it, but the absence of fresh wounds did make it easier for him to walk out the door and go teach class that first morning after. And as the week progressed, Severus’ random checks continued to turn up… nothing. 

But though it seemed that the boy was ostensibly improving, Severus himself did not—could not—relax. His disquietude expressed itself in the tension that remained in his posture, in the sharp edges of his words, in the reproach of his gaze… though now, less of this was directed at his student than at himself. 

One evening, as he sat eviscerating papers at his desk, Harry set his book down—another Muggle thriller by the same author—and stood uncertain for a moment, before decisively beginning to pace the room’s perimeter. 

Severus observed the action from the corner of his eye, but didn’t let on that he registered the boy’s presence at all; there was no interruption in the movement of his quill. 

Midway through his circuit Harry paused, exhaled a barely audible breath, and twisted his hands behind his back in a faux stretch as if he were merely stiff after lounging on the sofa for so long. Even from the corner of his eye Severus could tell that his nails were pressed into his skin—punishingly, but not quite hard enough to break the skin. Perhaps that was punishment in itself. 

A particularly vicious red slash vanquished the opening paragraph of a hapless essay. 

After a moment, Harry resumed his measured trace of the room’s perimeter. He did not break his step, but the internal struggle was broadcast in the curl of his fist, the drag of nails down his forearm—still not enough to break skin, but… 

Another red slash, this one nearly tearing through the page, and Severus realized that he was gripping his quill with more force than was strictly necessary. He smoothed the sheet of parchment. The essay’s argument was already exsanguinated in the margins; it wasn’t necessary to destroy it physically as well. 

A soft thud indicated that the boy had resumed his occupancy of the couch, the rustle of pages, and… silence. 

Severus did not glance back or in any way acknowledge the moment, but the next morning’s random check was still clean. 

This was victory, wasn’t it? Two weeks in, and the boy was finally trying. So why did Severus feel no triumph, grim though it may be?

The smooth, calculated strokes of his stirring rod reined his thoughts into a pattern: order, focus.

_Seven clockwise, two anticlockwise. Pause. Repeat._

Because—it wasn’t a victory. Not really. Yes, it was _progress_ , insofar as in the past week Severus had not uncovered any more angry red scratches on the angry young Gryffindor, but on the other hand… his walls remained. 

_…two, three…._

The boy still did not trust him, still did not turn to him for help or ask his assistance when fighting through the urges. He’d seen this quite clearly the night Harry had paced the sitting room. 

He’d fought his way through that battle admirably—and just like a Gryffindor, Severus thought scornfully, that the brat probably _did_ think of it in terms of warfare—yet he’d failed to call upon any support… a move that would get people killed in real battle. 

As the boy well knew. 

_…six, seven…_

Severus glowered down into his brew, momentarily seething like the concoction in the cauldron. That damnable ‘lone hero’ complex of his! What could Severus do to break the boy of that delusion, to force him to not only confront but _accept_ his own limitations, instead of attacking every problem as if he could, should, and must go it alone? As if it were bloody _noble_ to forgo support that was offered? 

Especially when some people never had the privilege and luxury of reliable support in the first place! 

_…two, pause._

Merlin, where had that come from? Severus bared his teeth in an expression of disgust, which he directed at his reflection on the surface of his potion. He was not jealous of the little twit, any more than he’d been jealous of the twit’s father. The source of his vexation was merely the teen’s obstinate and perpetual stubbornness. 

_…four, five…_

The aspect that dissatisfied Severus most about Harry’s “progress” was that it wasn’t sustainable in this manner. He was behaving more like a trapped animal, so clearly abstaining from harming himself to hasten his release back to Gryffindor Tower, rather than someone who had made a conscious, genuine decision to quit the habit for his own sake. 

There was nothing sincere about it; this was forced—and hated—compliance, not a whit more. Severus knew without a doubt that if he were to let his student go now, he’d go right back to cutting within the week, rendering all the time and privacy sacrificed... a waste. 

_…one, two…_

He felt his ever-present scowl deepen of its own accord. No, he hadn’t only sacrificed his own privacy by allowing the prolonged presence of his _houseguest_ , he’d also stripped the boy of his own privacy, in the form of unsolicited Legilimacy and random checks. True, given the exceptional circumstances these were necessary evils, but evils nonetheless—Severus himself would be loath to receive the same treatment and, most likely, react with far more open hostility. Still, he did feel a certain regret for having to subject a student to what he would not willingly endure himself. 

For all the good it was doing. 

_…two, pause._

The Potions Master’s hands stilled. He raised the heat on the flame, then exhaled a defeated sigh, bracing himself against the lab bench and hanging his weary head. Without the agitation of the stirring rod’s movement the surface of the potion in the cauldron settled, throwing Severus’ reflection back at him like an insult. He gazed at it for long moments, as if there was enlightenment to be found there. 

There was not. 

The reflection was broken up by pustulant bubbles that swelled and burst as the concoction came to a rolling boil. Though he no longer had to endure the sight of his own face, the directive Albus had given him last time they spoke in his office returned to carry on the mockery. 

“You need to try harder,” he’d said. 

_I_ am _trying, believe me, I am…_

The voice that answered bore down with Severus’ own harsh inflection— _Not hard enough, obviously—_ sparing not even himself of his customary acrimony. 

He bowed his head low over his cauldron as he trailed the stirring rod in sluggish patterns through the boiling mixture. 

Albus had framed this project… _helping Harry…_ as a mission for the Order. Thus, it brooked no failure. And so far, Severus had resoundingly failed to make any real headway. Acknowledgment of this fact did not lance him through painfully; rather, it settled heavy somewhere in the vicinity of his lungs, but he felt it keenly nonetheless. 

What was it that made Harry Potter so _bothersome?_ Not merely in his antics—specifically, his _ability_ to bother Severus, to work his way into his thoughts and feelings until he was as inextricably bound up in them as a thread woven through a tapestry. How was it that this Gryffindor child so easily got under the skin of the rigid and controlled Slytherin Housemaster? 

The steam billowing up from the hissing cauldron was becoming intolerably stifling; Severus swiped at the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead and shoved his sleeves up as he continued to stir. 

It was _who_ Harry was that made Severus’ failure both inevitable and unbearable. 

Harry’s case was different from the students he’d overseen in the past in two ways. First: he was a Gryffindor. Severus tended to have much more influence with (and control over) the students in his own House; Slytherins respected a fellow Slytherin above any other… but Gryffindors respected no House _less_ than Slytherin. A doomed venture from the start. 

Second, and harder to stomach: this was _Lily’s son_. To let down any student was unacceptable, but to fail _this one_ was equivalent, in Severus’ view, to failing her directly. Again. 

Such a transgression could not go unpunished. 

He killed the flame beneath the furiously bubbling cauldron and withdrew the glass stirring rod. Tapping it gently against the lip of the cauldron dislodged the drops of scalding potion that clung to the tip; then, as if he were doing nothing more than moving on to the next step in a procedure, he sedately pressed it against his arm.

The still-hot stirring rod hissed upon contact with skin, and Severus sucked in a short breath, closing his eyes—not to block the pain, but to focus on it. He held the hot rod in place until it had cauterized his shame at the source and burned away his guilt and despair, leaving nothing behind but an anodyne numbness. 

There are many paradoxes in life, one being that sometimes pain itself is the most effective analgesic. 

——-

It was early the next morning that Severus found himself reporting to Albus' office for yet another chat. It was always early with Albus Dumbledore.

What was it about old coots that inspired them to begin the business of the day at such obscene hours? Did they simply have no respect for young folks’ rest, or does there come an age where the living see Death swift approaching in the rearview mirror and collectively resolve to render every last moment as efficient as possible?

It was profane. Even so, Severus appeared in Albus' office at precisely the time requested, fresh and composed as if it were his natural preference to be fully dressed and styled at 6:30 am.

The Headmaster waved him in with his usual cheer, and Severus scowled, already thoroughly irritated by the needlessly chipper offer of tea and toast. He tightly accepted a teacup but declined the toast and settled in for what would surely be a tedious conversation.

For once, Albus wasted no time with inane chatter, cutting instead right to the chase. "How is Harry doing?"

The lines of Severus' face deepened as he hid an expression of disgust in his teacup. Of _course_ —how is Albus’ _golden boy?_

But he kept his voice neutral, if not quite polite. "Progress is minimal."

Albus stirred an absurd amount of sugar into his own tea, seemingly unconcerned. A moment passed while he tapped the spoon against the rim of the cup and took an experimental sip before smiling in approval.

"Care to elaborate on that, Severus?" 

Severus allowed himself a small _hmph_ before taking a generous sip of his own tea; bitter and scalding—a bare comfort. 

"My assessment from last week stands. He still is not making any genuinely intentioned, sustainable effort to quit the habit. He does not take it seriously in the least."

"And what have you done to address this attitude?"

Severus set the teacup back on its saucer with a sharp _clink_.

"I caught him getting _creative_ , so I was forced to apply safety charms to objects that might have potential as a tool of harm. I also had to implement a policy of random checks, to make sure he isn't applying that creativity to circumvent my charms."

Albus absently stroked his beard, pensive. "And is he?"

"…Apparently not,” Severus reluctantly admitted, folding his arms across his chest. “All of my random checks have turned up clean."

"Hm." Albus was now nibbling on a scone of some sort, the type that looked appallingly sweet. Severus averted his eyes in disgust, too nauseated by the topic of discussion to stomach even the thought of food just now. "And…you would call this 'minimal progress'?"

"I would," Severus replied curtly. A raised eyebrow pointedly directed at Severus from across the table was a clear command to elaborate. Severus huffed, thoroughly weary of this conversation, but clarified, "I suspect he is attempting to fool me into thinking he's broken the habit so he can escape the watchful presence of a professor and go right back to harming himself as he pleases."

Albus made a mildly disapproving noise. "Come now, surely not? I don't know Harry to be so duplicitous; you're thinking like a Slytherin."

"I'm thinking like a cutter!" Severus snapped, turning his head sharply away. "That is to say..." he continued after a moment of composure, "You assigned him to my care because I have the most experience of any of the staff in dealing with this particular behavior. I know to what lengths they will go to avoid having to truly confront it."

Albus heaved a heavy sigh. "If that is so, then do what you must."

An uneasy silence settled over the office for a few minutes as each man was left to his own thoughts, punctuated only by the soft ticks and whirs of the various gadgets on display around the office and the clicking of Fawkes' beak as he restlessly shuffled around on his perch.

At length, Albus set his teacup down and pushed it away with a decisive clatter of porcelain. He pushed back his chair and wandered to the window where he stood surveying the grounds, a dark silhouette against the brightening morning sky. "I also wanted to discuss with you... your _other_ responsibilities, Severus," he said, half-glancing back.

Severus inclined his head in understanding and joined him at the window, taking an oblique position so as not to face the early sun directly.

"Have you heard anything more on the movements of the Dark Lord and his followers?"

"Nothing more than my most recent report. You are aware that I have not been Summoned in nearly three weeks." It wasn’t a question.

"Of course," Albus acknowledged mildly. "Still, it's possible you could have learned something from your correspondence with your associates, or overheard a careless conversation amongst the children of his servants, for example."

Severus' lip curled at the implied slight even as he shot back, "And if that were the case, do you not think I would have informed you posthaste? Spying is a job where one does not have the luxury of punching out at the end of the day. Unless…" here he bared his teeth in open outrage, "Unless you are suggesting that I am—deliberately withholding information? After all this time, do you still trust me so little, Albus?"

He swiveled sharply away, putting his back to the old man lest he say something he might regret. The man was his employer, after all.

"I trust you implicitly, Severus," Albus' soft words drifted over his shoulder and seemed to hang in the air, suspended like dust motes caught in beams of sunlight. He clenched his jaw but said nothing in reply.

"Forgive me, I meant not to imply that you are disloyal," Albus entreated, "merely to... leave no stone unturned, as they say." 

Severus relaxed the tension in his form a bit and slowly turned back to him.

"It's just rather unusual for you not to have been Summoned nor heard anything for three weeks, is all," Albus clarified.

Severus considered it. "I believe that the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters are intending to lie low. After the debacle at the Department of Mysteries last summer, the Dark Lord revealed his presence to all and sundry. He cannot afford to draw undue attention to his operation now."

"Indeed, that would be very rash, and young Tom always excelled at strategy." Albus' gaze took on a calculating aspect while he appeared to consider something. "I have a theory, Severus, that I'd like to confirm by looking at your Dark Mark, if you would please."

Severus froze; for a moment even his lungs seemed to freeze, refusing to draw in air until they suddenly did again, and a great intake of breath reminded him that his heart was still beating too, albeit a little faster now. Somehow, he hadn't anticipated that Albus would make this particular request, and so he had dressed the burn from the stirring rod with salve and bandages, but had not bothered to cast a glamour over it.

Now he was hyper-aware of the friction of the bandage against the inside of his sleeve—was it his imagination, or could he feel the wound throbbing in time to his rapid heartbeat like a mocking reminder?

Albus continued to hold his gaze steadily, patiently, but there was something in the blue depths that was deliberate and discerning. This was not an innocent request; the pretext of asking about his spying duties had thrown him off guard but it was not what this was ultimately about. Albus had a 'theory' alright, and Severus was certain that he would shortly confirm it. He regarded Albus through narrowed eyes but obliged nonetheless; there was little he could deny the Headmaster. 

Slowly, reluctantly, Severus undid the buttons on his cuff and pushed his left sleeve up, revealing a crisp white bandage where the Dark Mark ought to be. He met the Headmaster's gaze impassively, nursing some secret hope that perhaps Albus would not realize the nature of the injury, and he might be able to explain it away as something else; an accident, perhaps.

Tentatively, the old man's long, bony fingers reached forward as if to touch, but before any contact could be made Severus cringed violently away. It was instinctive and involuntary, but he felt his cheeks flush at the reaction anyway. 

"I need to see, Severus."

He turned his face away, but nodded stiffly, fully aware of the futility of arguing. He held his arm out in offering and winced as the bandage was peeled away with more gentleness than was warranted.

"What happened?"

"It..." _It was an accident_ , Severus wanted to lie. He wanted to spin a story about working in his lab while overtired, how he had just slipped and ended up burning himself but hadn't wanted to bother Madame Pomfrey at such a late hour and it was a simple enough thing to treat, so he'd tended to it himself, and that was that. Instead, he heard himself say, "It's none of your concern."

Albus speared him with a sharp look, and Severus swallowed past his suddenly too-dry throat. "This is my concern,” Albus said, a hard edge to his voice, “and... I am concerned. For you."

Severus' own expression darkened, and he wrenched his arm out of Albus' too-gentle grasp. In the same movement, me made to pull his sleeve back down, but hissed in pain at the sudden sensation of the rough fabric against the still-healing burn, and found his hands caught in Albus' once more.

"I am no longer a student," he spat, venomous. "What shall you do—take points from Slytherin? Give me detention? Report me to my Head of House? Write my _parents?"_

"You are not fool enough to pretend I have no jurisdiction over you," Albus retorted, flinty. "I could make it an order. I could ask a vow. I could invoke a binding."

Severus took a half-step backward, regarding Albus—the Headmaster—with open hostility, resentment etched in every line of his posture. He was all too aware that, tolerant though Albus might be, the man standing before him was still one of his masters.

At once, the Headmaster's authoritarian demeanor vanished, leaving only a tired-looking old man in its place. "I could… but I won't. I'm not going to use force with you here."

"Why?!" Severus demanded. "Why do you pretend to care now?"

Still holding Severus' hands, Albus squeezed lightly; Severus flinched.

“I pretend nothing. I care for everyone who graces these halls, student or staff.”

Severus opened his mouth to protest, the bitter, wounded words already materializing—

_Did you care when Hogwarts wasn’t a refuge from my house?_

_Did you care when I was nearly_ killed _by a werewolf?_

_Did you care when I pledged my allegiance to the Dark Lord because he was the only one who seemed to value me?_

_Where were you?_

—but Albus held up a hand to forestall the impending tirade.

“I have always cared. But,” a pause, “I have failed to always show you, and this is a mistake I regret most deeply. I am truly sorry.” 

Severus turned his face sharply away again, unable to hide the stricken disbelief in his eyes, nor the suspicious prickling in their corners. He bit his lip fiercely, until the emotion receded, until he tasted blood.

"Severus, look at me."

With much effort, he blanked his expression and forced himself to meet Albus’ eyes; he wanted to shrink away from what he found there. 

"What can I do to help?"

Severus stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then began to shake his head, slowly at first then more vigorously. "Nothing," he replied in a harsh whisper. "There's—there's nothing you can do. Not for me."

"I refuse to believe that. I won't give up on you."

Albus finally released his hands, and Severus jerked back as if burned. And in some ways, he found that the unexpected apology, the gentle offering of support, and the honest concern in those incisive eyes pierced him straight through with an incandescent pain that hot glass against skin couldn't even begin to rival. He'd rather endure pity or scorn or disgust—those he was used to, those he could manage—but this? It was almost unbearable.

His footsteps hammered out a rhythm in time to his frantic heartbeat as he fled back to his dungeons and their cold, slimy expanses of blank, unfeeling stone: back to everything that was familiar, everything that was safe. 

——-

_Dear Ron and Hermione,_

_Professor McGonagall probably told you that I got called for some Order mission and have to miss class for a bit. Sorry you haven't heard from me in a while, but I was told I can write to you now. I can't tell you where I am or what I'm doing though, but I'm okay._

_Honestly it’s really boring. I’ve been reading and studying a lot mostly (I’m being made to keep up on my studies—that probably makes you happy, Hermione!) but I really miss playing quidditch and just hanging out with you guys. Hopefully I’ll be back soon, but I don’t really know how much longer this will take._

_I hope you’re both doing good. Say hi to Ginny and Neville and Luna and the team for me._

_-Harry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since my last chapter update, I've had an entire semester of uni, I've moved house, I've started a new job... things have been really hectic and my life is very uncertain at the moment. Additionally, I haven't been in the best of health, so the time/motivation/energy triad for writing has only aligned occasionally. I really didn't intend to have 6 months between updates (that's absurd!) and honestly I don't think this is my best prose, but if I keep editing then it'll be another 6 months... 
> 
> So thank you to anyone who is still around, I appreciate your patience. And as always, I appreciate comments! I read every one of them, even if I don't reply.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, sorry to leave it on a sort of cliffhanger like that (no i'm not sorry at all); the next chapter will introduce a certain meddling old fool into the mix, and the plot should pick up and get going. 
> 
> I would appreciate if you could leave a comment; feedback is incredibly useful and motivating to me, the writer. Thanks.
> 
> Title note: the title of the fic is taken from the title of a Kaki King song ("Doing The Wrong Thing"). Kaki King is not significant to this fic at all; she's just my favorite musical artist and I often draw inspiration for writing and titles from music; it seemed appropriate.


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